White Winter
by Gemini Star01
Summary: General Winter has kidnapped America and intends to keep him. It's up to Canada, Russia and the Nordics to mount a rescue mission; but the path is hard-going and there are dangers lurking in the ice unlike any they've faced before... a kink meme de-anon.
1. Prologue

Another de-anon from the Kink Meme. What can I say, that place is inspirational. The prompt this time was for a story where General Winter kidnaps America and intends to keep him; so Russia and Canada launch a rescue mission. And I threw in the Nordics for good measure. It's actually not quite finished on the meme yet. I just felt bad about going so long without posting anything.

**WARNINGS: **This story contains references to and depictions sexual situations, including rape and dub-con. It's not the focus of the story by any means, but it does come into play a lot, especially in the back-story. Please be advised that the rating is not for show.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything involving Hetalia. I just think this area here at the top looks silly without something between it and the title.

**White Winter**

**Prologue**

It was almost ritual by now, the things they did for Him.

The first time, Canada had been afraid. Back then, Russia was the boogieman who lurked on his northernmost borders, the Nordics a distant memory and Antarctica literally uninhabitable. But Finland had proven to be kind and honest; he sat with the younger nation for hours, served him hot drinks and strange snacks and answered all of his frightened questions. They hadn't forced him, that first time – Canada had volunteered, knowing that, if he didn't, it would be Finland's turn, Finland who was so nice and kind.

In hindsight, Canada would realize how much he had to thank France for. At least his comparatively young deflowering had been at the hands of his former guardian, who ravished him with love and warmth, rather than the brutal, cold, uncaring creature who preyed on the northern nations for his selfish release.

Since then, Canada's turn had come only twice, thanks to careful planning that cycled through the northern countries so that no one had to 'attend' to His needs more than once a century. The countries that lay in His domain had a sort of pact – no matter what was going on with the world, politically, they came together in support of the one whose turn was up, for the sake of the entire world.

That was the only reason that Canada was not afraid now. He knew that, even though this isolated cabin in the depths of his Northwest Territory was far from any sign of civilization, morning would bring Finland and Norway and Sweden – gentle giant and papa bear that he was – to wash the night away. And thus the world would be safe from Winter's rage for another decade or more.

Canada waited for Him in the prepared room, wrapped only in a long coat of white fur – He liked white fur. It also covered the bed and the floor, wherever He might like to play His cruel games. The doors were unlocked and the house was bitterly cold, lit only by candles, the power cut to invite Him in.

It was lonely here, in the cold. Canada missed his brother. It had been barely a month since they'd last parted. He couldn't wait to see America again. Maybe he'd invite him over for breakfast, once this mess was complete and the Nordics were safely home. Maple syrup and America. That would make up for this trial in a heartbeat.

Alone with these thoughts, Canada waited for Him.

And waited for Him.

But to his surprise, General Winter never came.

_**TBC…**_


	2. The Morning After

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything involving Hetalia. I just think this area here at the top looks silly without something between it and the title.

**White Winter**

**Chapter 1: The Morning After**

"Canada? Oh, Canada!"

Canada woke to Finland's voice echoing from the downstairs entry hall. Sunlight streamed through the windows, pale and cold, tinted with sparkle of newly-fallen snow. The candles that surrounded him were burnt to stubs and snuffed out long ago. He was still wrapped in – and lying on – the silky white fur dawned only in anticipation of the General's arrival.

But something was wrong. For one thing, he could still feel his legs.

"There you are," Finland sighed, appearing at the door with a Santa-sack full of clothes, bath tools and medical supplies. "Well, it doesn't seem like he worked you over too badly, eh? Norway, Su-san, he's up here!"

Canada sat up and felt for his glasses. They were lying next to him on the fur-lined bed, neatly folded and not even cracked. By the time he'd put them on, Norway had appeared carrying a wicker basket of herbs and candles. His specialty was the spiritual aspect of the recovery, weaving the ravaged nations' magical aura back into its proper alignment. This time, he stopped in the door and frowned at Canada in a way that might have been confusion.

"You look untouched," he said.

Canada shifted in his too-big fur and gave his body a quick examination. "I…I think I am."

"That's impossible," said Finland with a frown, setting down his bag and crawling across the bed to Canada's side. "He never gets off with some kind of pain and torment. You're not bleeding or frost-bitten or anything?"

"Nothing," Canada confirmed, rolling shoulders that were neither scratched nor strained by inhuman force. It was bewildering. He'd fallen asleep. Appeasing General Winter never ended with peaceful sleep. If they were lucky, the nation might get away with passing out before the pain set in, but an actual sleep? "I…I don't think the General came last night. That is, I don't think he came here. At all."

He let the words sink in. Finland's little hands, so steady on the trigger of a sniper's rifle, trembled against his knees. Canada clutched at the edge of his coat, painfully aware of how exposed he was beneath the layers of fur. Something cold and slimy slipped into his stomach: raw fear.

"If He didn't come here," he muttered, speaking what was on all of their minds, "then where did He go?"

It was only when Sweden appeared at the door that the spell of horror was broken. Norway set down his basket and dug for his cell phone. "I'm calling Denmark. And Iceland."

"Greenland, too," Finland sputtered, hopping to his feet. "Su-san, we have a problem. The General never appeared last night. Give me your phone, I have to call Estonia…"

Canada's blood ran cold. Sealand stayed with the Baltics on these nights, protected from the truth by a sleepover with Latvia. "You don't honestly think He'd go after a child?"

"No, no, of course not," said Finland dismissively, though there was a tinge of fear in his tone. "But Estonia's right on the borderlands and with Russia so close…"

"Someone needs to call Russia," Canada insisted, climbing restlessly from the bed. "I can –"

"You don't have to worry about anything until you're dressed," Finland insisted, shuffling out the door in Norway's wake. "Su-san, take care of him."

Sweden grunted and nudged the door closed behind his 'wifey.' He turned back to Canada and raised a single eyebrow – the only indicator of his concern. "Yeh 'kay?"

"I'm fine."

Sweden grunted again and stretched out his arms to present a neatly folded bundle of newly-sewn clothes in colors of Canada's flag – a common gift, after the General's visits. Canada's smile widened as he took the present. "Thanks, Berwald. You're the best."

Sweden averted his eyes and cleared his throat, pleased. Canada ducked into the tiny bathroom in the rear corner and changed quickly, tossing away the fur coat as though it were a monster. He reappeared to find Sweden busy cleaning the room. "You don't have to do that."

Sweden grunted. Canada sighed. "All right, I understand."

He stuck his head out the door. Norway and Finland had moved downstairs. Their voices echoed to the landing, in Icelandic and Estonian respectively. The tense atmosphere that had settled over the house was unbearable, and the building fear threatened to strangle them all.

Canada ducked back into the room, fetched his cell phone from inside the bed stand and glanced to Sweden again. "I'm gonna make some calls."

Again, the burly Nordic only grunted.

Canada returned to the bathroom and debated over who to call first. His gut wanted to call his family, as the Nordics were doing, but none of them, not even America, knew what he was supposed to have done last night, and they were too far south to have garnered a visit from Him. No, now it was more important that they know where He had gone instead of coming to Canada, and everyone knew that Russia was His unfortunate favorite.

Canada didn't have Russia's number in his phone, but he knew it. His fingers shook on the keypad, and the machine rattled against his ear through the rings. Finally, the line picked up with a click. "Allo?"

"Russia, it's Canada. Did…Did the General come by last night?"

A biting cold almost as vicious as the General's itself seemed to radiate from the phone. "Nyet. He was supposed to come to you, comrade."

Canada gulped. "I know. But he didn't."

"Did you, perhaps, 'forget' to leave the door open for him?"

"This cabin doesn't even have locks." Canada ran a restless hand through his hair and sank onto the closed toilet. "He just didn't come."

"That is not possible."

"I know. But it happened. Do you know why?"

Silence on the other end. Then: "I will be in touch."

A click, and the line went dead. Canada hung up and allowed himself to shiver. Russia may be a loyal ally, especially who respect his General's wrath, but say he was unnerving would be a serious understatement.

With the business taken care of, he turned his thoughts closer to home and called up his brother's number. America's voice, excited about something ridiculous and blissfully unaware of the confusion in the north, would be like a balm on Canada's flustered mind. Just seeing the familiar number pop up on his screen was a relief, and his heart beat slowed steadily with each passing ring.

He was answered by a machine.

"Hey there! You've reached the awesome Alfred F. Jones! Sorry, but I'm out doing something heroic, so leave me a message and I'll try to remember to call you back."

Canada blinked and missed the signal beep altogether. It was true that America had a dozen homes throughout his States, but all of his landlines shared the same number through some bizarre relay system that had probably cost his government a small fortune, so he should have picked up somewhere.

He tried America's cell next. It went straight to voicemail.

"Hey, you've reached the awesome Alfred F. Jones! I'm doing awesome things right now, so leave me a message and I'll –"

The cold blob of fear that had congealed in Canada's gut began to rear its ugly head as a monster of concern. Even though it was far too early on a Friday for America of all people to even consider going to work, he called the military recruitment office where he was currently assigned. A serious young woman picked up on the second ring. "US Army Recruitment Center."

"I'm looking for Alfred Jones," sputtered Canada, forgetting his manners.

The female solider did not even falter. "Major Jones left on vacation yesterday for personal reasons. He has not given an estimated time of return."

"Did he say where he was going?" Canada pressed. "I'm his brother. It's important."

"One moment, sir." Papers rustled and muffled voices whispered beyond the reach of Canada's hearing. The monster inside him roamed, searching for prey and upsetting the delicate balance of his already-tortured digestive tract. Finally, she returned. "According to the paperwork, he's investigating rumors of a disturbance on personal property in Alaska."

The beast of fear pounced upon Canada's heart. Had he been human, it might have stopped him dead. "A…disturbance, you say? What kind of disturbance?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, sir. I think he mentioned something about Russians, as crazy as that sounds."

"Russians?"

"Well, his exact words could be taken as a racial slur."

Canada swallowed. It felt like acid burning his throat, rushing down to meet the beast that was gnawing on his heart. "I see. Th-Thank you."

He hung up and told himself not to panic. There was no reason to jump to conclusions. So America might have been in Alaska last night. That didn't mean anything.

He tried the cell phone again.

It went to voicemail without a single ring.

America never turned off his phone.

Canada pulled himself to his feet and lurched for the door. His knees felt like rubbed and his feet like lead. He stumbled into the bedroom to find that Finland had returned and was talking to Sweden in quiet, worried tones. When the small Nordic met Canada's eye, he nearly jumped a foot. "What happened to you now? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"Worse," Canada muttered, sinking onto the bed. "I think I know what happened last night."

Finland and Sweden exchanged worried looks, but said nothing, prompting him with silence. Canada raked his hands through his hair and prayed for this entire thing to be just one huge, ridiculous, frost-addled dream. "The reason that the General didn't come for me…is because he found America first."

_**TBC…**_


	3. In Winter's Home

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything involving Hetalia. I just think this area here at the top looks silly without something between it and the title.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Two: In Winter's Home**

Cold. Bitter, biting cold.

America moaned and curled further into himself. His limbs were numb. His body was numb. His cells buzzed with dull, white noise. All that he knew was cold.

He clenched his eyes closed and thought of the south, his south. Georgia, with its rolling accents and rich soul food kept warm in the sun. Arizona, with its painted deserts. Florida, with its bayous and beaches. Texas, with all its – Texas-ness. All of it sunny. All of it warm.

Warm…

"So warm."

The voice was unfamiliar. America opened his eyes.

He lay trapped in the grasp of a giant, a great beast seven, eight feet tall, taller than him, taller even than Russia. Huge arms that belonged on a bear wrapped around him but bore no warmth. A monstrous hand groped beneath America's shirt, petting his chest; its partner was in his pants, grasping, pulling, stroking…

America jerked back and his head connected with his attacker's chin. In the same motion, he flung the broad arms away and kicked back with his heels, drawing a satisfying _crack_ as the two bones met. America leapt over the back of the couch they'd been laying on and skittered across a flawless, frozen floor. His bare feet couldn't quite get a grip – he slid straight into the wall.

"The fuck?" he gasped, trying to get his head on straight. He didn't know this wall, intricately carved from a strange blue stone that was so cold in nearly burned his hands. He didn't know this room, or how he came to be here. The last thing that he remembered was arriving at his Alaskan cabin, exhausted from his long journey. After that – nothing.

The top layer of his skin was frozen to the wall. America hissed and turned to see the stranger for the first time.

America did not know him. He was a gruff figure, built wide and strong like Sweden or Russia, folded into a midnight blue uniform that America recognized as military, but did not know. His hair was white with black flecks, like a supply of flour that had been allowed to mold, from his bushy eyebrows to his long, full beard. Amidst all that hair, America could only barely make out two beady black eyes, as dark and cold as long night in Antarctica.

America barely had time to take it all in before the giant was on his feet once more. His lip was bleeding, but he didn't pay it any mind.

"Naughty," he growled, in a voice as low as a blizzard's wind.

America shuddered. Something instinctual told him that this giant was dangerous. Ancient. Powerful. "What the hell are you?"

The giant stared at him, silent, still. Then suddenly, he moved.

America jerked with a counter-attack, but his arm was seized in mid-air and slammed back against his own chest. The other gigantic hand pinned him by the throat. America bit his lip to muffle a cry as the cold bit into the exposed skin of his neck and sank painfully through his too-thin shirt. The giant, who created no heat, loomed close. His breath might as well hang heavy with snow.

Gritting his teeth, America put all of his strength into pushing his attacker off. He didn't so much as budge.

"Strong," said the stranger with a hint of admiration in his cold tone. "A powerful nation. But against a force of nature…"

America growled and twisted his left fist into an under-arm blow. It caught his attacker under the ribs, but the giant didn't even wince. America kicked at his shins and dug his nails in where he could, but there wasn't even a flicker of recognition.

Instead, the giant nuzzled America's neck like a mother bear to its cub, leaving puffs of frost against his skin. "So warm."

"Like you'd know," America said through his teeth. A popsicle would be warm to this guy.

He hissed as icy lips sealed themselves onto the place where neck met shoulder. A cold tongue lapped at the spot, drawing an unwilling moan from America's throat. His attacker's free hand slid down the length of America's button-down, rough fingers tickling the taunt muscles beneath. It moved to the undone button of his jeans and toyed with it, short-cropped nails clicking against its metal. Then it drew down his zipper and slipped beneath the folds of his boxers.

America jerked back as the cold hand found his cock. "No! You freak, get off!"

His attacker did not respond, not even giving a grunt of acknowledgement. His hand continued to work its way around America's vital regions, stroking his shaft and rubbing his balls. The friction of skin against skin was enough to arouse America despite his best efforts, but the cold brought only pain that stifled release before it could be realized. The ever-building pressure felt ready to explode.

America would not, could not go down without a fight. With his trapped hand, he gripped his attacker's arm, pulling just enough weight off his throat that he could strike with his legs. He landed kicks that would have shattered a normal man's bones, but this giant was so intent on his work that nothing else registered.

The heat pooling in America's stomach without release built until he felt ready to explode. His knees lost the strength to even support him, and he sagged against the giant's arm with a moan. He dug his nails into his attacker's arm, shivering, and let his eyes slip closed. It was so cold. Too cold.

"C-Cold…"

The giant's whiskers tickled as he smirked against America's throat. Despite his constant contact and a trail of bruises he'd left on the warm flesh that heat had not transferred to his own body, leaving his touch as cold as before. He took America's in his mouth and ran sharp teeth along the sensitive flesh.

Finally, the pressure overcame the pain. America slammed his head against the wall, coming with a wordless cry. His vision went white and it all just kept going and then it hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_…

Thankfully, it came to an end. America was released. He slid down the frozen wall, unable to feel even the nearest of his extremities. All his joints felt like they were made of rubber, and the white took a long time to clear from his eyes.

Once it finally faded, the first thing he saw was the giant, licking a mass of cloudy white liquid from his hand like a kitten lapping cream. America snarled at him from the floor. "You're a sick fuck."

The giant did not respond. He left America on the floor and stepped out of his field of vision. America closed his eyes and let his head fall against the wall. He had to catch his breath, to force his heartbeat back into its proper rhythm. Once that happened, the feeling would return and he could fight his way out. That's all he needed. Just a little time…

A moment later, he heard the rustle of cloth as the giant returned. The huge figure, radiating cold, knelt beside the fallen nation. Something hard slipped around America's neck, sealed with a burst of icy air.

America opened his eyes, glared at the giant and felt the object with his fingers. It was a metal band, about an inch thick and fairly light for its size – most likely made of silver – bound in place by a sold block of ice. America let his hands fall, his arms trembling with the effort, but his glare never wavered from the giant's beady eyes.

"You can't keep me here," he said with conviction. "You won't. You have no idea who I am."

An amused smirked quirked at the corners of the giant's mouth. He grasped America's new collar and pulled him in, icy breath leave frosty trails on the nation's lips. "You?" he chuckled. "You are mine."

When America opened his mouth to retort, the giant sealed his own lips over those of the nation's and forced a lungful of super-cold air down his throat. America gagged. Ice slid into his stomach and lungs, soaking through soft tissue and wrapping about his heart. The giant pulled away and America was aware of a single breath, laden with ice crystals, that burst from his own lungs before everything went black.

( - )

General Winter smiled at his handiwork as the lively nation finally stopped fighting. He lay his hand flat against the broad chest and felt the ice that now encased his vital organs – lungs, heart and digestive tract, all frozen solid and perfectly preserved.

Winter lifted his new pet into his arms and basked in the wonderful heat that lingered still within him. He rocked America like a child's doll, folded his eyelids closed and returned his clothes to a more presentable state.

To think, he'd been so surprised when he'd stepped into the New World to see his appointed offering entering a cabin far from their arranged meeting place. It wasn't until he had the boy in his clutches that he realized how wrong he was. This was his intended's southern brother, the one who rarely journeyed into the cold recesses of his icy kingdom. And, oh, he was so delightfully i_warm./i_

General Winter nuzzled his new pet's hair once more and sighed in satisfaction before he stood, lifting America from the floor. He carried the apparently lifeless body to the far side of his private chambers, to the foot of his own bed, where a coffin was waiting for them. It was a beautiful thing crafted of ice so clear it looked like polished glass and lined with the soft fur of a dozen white rabbits.

He laid America inside, careful to rest his head comfortably on the goose-down pillow, and brushed the golden strands from his forehead. There, he lay a soft kiss. It lingered in his wake, glowing first white, then blue and finally faded into a dark purple claim.

"Mine," he whispered. "All mine."

With that, Winter stepped away, lowering the coffin's lid with careful hands. The cold would keep his pet preserved, until next they could be together; the ice, so thick it could only be called impenetrable, would keep him save. And thus, he would remain in General Winter's care.

Forever.

_**TBC…**_


	4. Alaska

Confession time: I've never written the Nordics before in my life. Nor have I read, well, any fics about them. So I apologize if I get some characterization wrong.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything involving Hetalia. I just think this area here at the top looks silly without something between it and the title.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Three: Alaska**

Six hours after the dawn when Winter never appeared, Canada found himself sitting in the passenger seat of Sweden's rented SUV, feeling very small. As they rumbled across the Yukon-Alaskan border, he glanced to their stern-faced driver with trepidation and resisted the urge to shrink into the shell of his coat. "This really isn't necessary. You…You guys don't have to go to all this trouble."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Demark demanded from the second row of seats. Finland covered the ear that was closest to his loud relative and winced away. Norway and Iceland, sitting in the far back, exchanged a roll of their eyes. "Of course we have to come along! And by golly, I'll tell you why."

Canada's face flushed and he sank back into his chair, clutching Kumajiro. "No, really, you don't have to…"

"One," continued the Dane, without even noticing his discomfort. "General Winter is our collective responsibility. If something's fucked up with him, it's gonna mean big trouble for the whole goddamn world. So we better damn well see this thing through the end.

"Two, if your hunch is right and our big frosted freak really did do something to America, then we better damn well get him patched up right, or it's gonna mean hell for the whole world one way or another. That brother of yours ain't used to this mess, and I don't wanna see what the world's only remaining superpower's like half-traumatized by a being of pure elemental force like ol' frosty."

The very thought made Canada's insides squirm. He sank deeper into his chair, trying not to attack the haunting edge of wrongness in his world with images of his twin, frost-bitten and bloody in the most horrid of ways, lying wounded and abandoned somewhere in the icy wasteland. He tried to tell himself that America was strong, freakishly so, and more than a match for most opponents. But the General was not most opponents.

"Three, who the hell else are you gonna call, freakin' Russia? He's as crazy as the old man! He's half-liable to snap on you at any second!

"Four, it's not like we can all just hop on plane and go home, especially not since you called Icey and me in from our places on such short notice.

"And finally." Denmark's gloved hand suddenly descended onto Canada's head, startling the younger nation from his thoughts. The Dane grinned and ground the hell of his palm playfully into the other's scalp. "Number five: You. Are. Our. Friend. So we're in this together, no matter what."

Canada blinked in surprise and peered into the back seat. Finland sat with a large first aid kit in his lap, going over the things they would need to patch America up. Norway had an ancient book balanced on his knees, which he thumbed through while silently conversing with his invisible troll friend about the nature of Winter as an entity. Iceland just met his gaze and offered a tiny twitch of his lips – his version of a smile.

Canada settled back into his seat and, for the first time since hearing his brother's voicemail, allowed himself to smile. Being so isolated, with only his brother at his borders, it was nice to know that he had friends.

Kumajiro rolled his head back and looked up at his owner with curious black eyes. "Who're you?"

Canada sighed. He glanced outside and realized that the area looked familiar. He double-checked the GPS, rolled down the window and craned his head out to peer down the long dirt road. "That's it," he called to Sweden, pointing to a small brown dot that rested on the horizon. "That's Al's place."

Sweden grunted and pressed down on the accelerator, jostling them all in their seats. Denmark swore and disappeared behind Canada's chair again to check the protective sheaf on his battleaxe. Canada stroked Kumajiro's fur and tried to keep his heart from bursting out of his chest.

They pulled to a stop directly in front of Alfred's two-story cabin, not even sliding an inch on the thick snow. Canada jumped out of the car before Sweden could even hit the breaks, He made a bee-line for the door, but his hand had only brushed the knob when a pale, hulking figure appeared in the corner of his vision.

Canada leapt back with a yelp before he realized who it was. "Russia! Ah…you scared me half to death."

Russia was smiling his usually little smile, but it didn't stop his dusky violent eyes from behind a bit disturbing. "A pity, comrade."

Denmark trotted up with his axe over his shoulder, a distrustful gleam in his eye and the rest of the Nordics in tow. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Russia shrugged. "America and I were scheduled to have a meeting next weekend. When I called to cancel, his...secretary, I believe …told me he was here, and I guess what might have happened."

Canada ran his teeth along his lower lip. "I don't think she's actually a secretary, she's a soldier, and Al would get mad if you called her that…"

"It does not matter. America is not here."

Canada's heart skipped a painful beat. Kumajiro slipped from his grasp and landed, with a plop, in the snow.

It was Finland who had the voice to respond. "What do you mean he's not here?"

"See for yourself." Russia pushed the door, which swung open without a fight. "The lock is broken. The knob is useless also – frozen."

Canada's heart skipped another beat. He dashed forward, into the house, but only made it to the stairs before his feet flew out from under him. Finland gasped, "Canada!"

"I'm all right!" Canada shouted back, grabbing the railing of the stairs for a handhold. He used the rails to pull himself onto the stairs with a jump. "Be…be careful, there's ice."

"This far in?" Norway entered and confirmed it, brushing his fingers against the edge of the frozen sheet. He frowned. "There's blood here. Frozen, in the ice."

Canada swallowed. "America's?"

Norway's frown deepened. He looked to an empty spot of air above his own hand, where a magical friend was perched. A moment later, he offered a grim nod.

Canada pulled his eyes away from the dark red speckles and turned them to the house at large. There was no sign of a struggle, not even a knick-knack out of place on the walls. But the ice, and the blood…had America been snuck up upon?

He hurried up the stairs.

There was more ice on second story, speckled across the carpet and walls. A fading handprint, much larger than Canada's and thus too big to belong to America, stained the wallpaper outside of America's room. On the floor beneath it was a splatter of blood.

America's jacket lay atop his bed, and his shoes lay discarded on the floor. Canada picked the jacket up and searched it inside and out for damage. There was none, which brought him a bit of relief – America's treasure, at least, was safe.

Iceland appeared in the door. "We've searched the entire place," he reported. "There's no sign of America."

Canada took a deep breath. When he turned to the other nation, Russia and rest of the Nordics had joined them in the hall. "He was here," Canada insisted, holding out the jacket. "See?"

Sweden grunted. Iceland stepped aside to allow the taller nation in. With an intense glare, Sweden made his way to the bed. Canada followed him with his eyes. "What is it?"

"D'nt," Sweden said, pointing to the headboard. Canada looked. There was indeed a dent, and a red stain he had not noticed against the dark wood. Sweden beckoned him closer, putting a large hand around the back of his head. Slowly, gently, Sweden pushed Canada until his forehead rested within the dent. It was exactly the right size.

"As I told you," Russia said, stepping into the room. "America is not here."

Canada straightened and turned to Russia, his stance steady even though his hands were shaking. "But where is he?" he asked. "Where's my brother?"

"It must be obvious," Russia said, without a flicker of emotion. "General Winter has taken him."

Canada blanched. His hand slipped over his own mouth and he sat down on the bed, holding the jacket against him. Finland hurried to the younger nation's side, but Canada was only shocked. None of them had even imagined that possibility.

Denmark rounded on Russia. "There's no way."

"You don't believe me?"

"It's never happened before."

"Of course it has."

Denmark snorted and adjusted his axe threateningly, popping a crick from his neck. "Come on, you crazy bastard. We don't even know if He lives anywhere."

"I know," said Russia with confidence.

"Oh, do you?"

"I have been there."

All eyes turned instantly to the tallest northern nation. If Russia was in any way overwhelmed by the sudden attention, he did not show it. "He took me there, when I was very young. I remained with him for many years."

Norway crossed his arms. "'There' you said. There, where?"

"His home. It is a place where there are no people and no countries, only Him and His home. "

Canada jumped up. "Ivan, you have to take me there."

"Canada," Finland interrupted. "It could be dangerous."

"Of _course_ it's dangerous," Denmark said.

"I know it is," Canada said without hesitation. "But I can't abandoned Al. He's my brother; I have to get him back. So Ivan, please."

To everyone's surprise, Russia broke the gaze that Canada held, averting his violet eyes. "I'm sorry. If I could take you there, I would. But I do not know how."

"You said you'd been there!" Denmark snapped.

"I said that He brought me there. While we traveled, I slept – He did not give me a choice, and I did not leave His home while I stayed there."

Iceland's frown mirrored Norway's. Though he was almost as small as Finland, he narrowed his eyes at Russia with an air of distrust and judgment. "Why would he bring you back at all?"

"He grew tired of me," said Russia, oddly resigned. "As he has grown tired of you – of all of us. After all, what can offer him, but different flavors of the same feast that he has eaten for millennia? He does not need us to partake of that, especially not now, when he has America to give him so much more."

"He can't have America!" Canada snapped, startling everyone, even Russia himself. The young man's arms were still trembling around his brother's jacket, but his tone and stance were so strong that no one could even think of arguing. "I don't care what He wants, He can't have him. Wherever He is, wherever He's keeping him, I'm getting him back. If that means I have to do it myself, then I will, but I'm not letting Him have my brother. I'd sooner die –"

His voice cracked. He bit his lip, turned pink at his outburst and lowered his head, clutching America's jacket close to him like a security blanket. For a moment, the gathered nations were left in silence.

Finally, Russia spoke. "You must take me with you. The inside of His house is a maze of ice. If we reach it, I can guide you through – otherwise, you will find neither America nor your own salvation."

Canada's flush deepened and he lowered his head further, hiding his thankful smile.

"We'll go too," Finland insisted, meeting Sweden's eye. "All of us, right?"

Sweden nodded. Norway and Iceland exchanged a glance of their own. Denmark threw his hands into the air in exasperation.

"I said that!" he insisted. "I said that in the car. We're sticking together to figure this thing the hell out, that's all fine, no argument there. But you know, there's still one tinsy little problem that we haven't answered yet: where the hell are we going to go?"

No one had an answer for him. Yet.

_**TBC…**_


	5. In Preparation

**Disclaimer:**I do not own anything involving Hetalia. I just think this area here at the top looks silly without something between it and the title.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Four: In Preparation **

Norway was stressed.

He didn't show it, of course. He knew he had reputation as a blank slate and was quite happy to keep it that way, but beneath the mask was an argumentative little knot of frustration. Placating the temperamental personification of winter was an ancient responsibility, passed to the current nations of the north by the tribes that had originally roamed their lands; and as the only one among the current countries who still had the ability to see otherworldly creatures, the roll of lore-keeper fell to Norway. However, none of his books referenced any sort of Winter 'home,' as Russia claimed, and his immortal friends were drawing blank.

Denmark wasn't helping either.

The taller nation, his former ruler, slung himself over the back of the couch and prodded Norway's shoulder, disturbing the troll who sat there. "Any luck?"

Norway ground his teeth. "Stop asking."

"I just wanna know if you've found anything."

"If I find anything, I'll tell you."

"You've been looking for _hours_," Denmark said, tugging at the sensitive hairs on the back of Norway's scalp. "I swear, you've gone through a dozen books. Haven't you found anything?"

With an aggravated growl that only Denmark could draw from him, Norway slammed the book closed. The troll skittered off with an indignant shriek and encouragements to give the loud bastard what for; and Norway intended to do just that. "Maybe I could have found something if I i_you_/i weren't interrupting me every five seconds with your inane blathering!"

"Woah, woah, woah!" Denmark raised his hands in mock surrender, as though waving his palms would subdue the savage beast of Norway's fury. "Chill out, Norge, I was just asking."

"For the eighth time in an hour!" Norway took a deep breath through his nose and rubbed his forehead in frustration. "If you've got so much energy, why don't you go bother Iceland for a bit?"

"He's busy."

Norway raised an eyebrow. "Since when has that ever stopped you?"

"When he's doing me a favor."

Norway contemplated that statement and decided that he really didn't want to know. He sighed and hoisted his book back into his lap, curling further into the over-stuffed cushions of America's couch. "Then go sharpen your axe or something, just leave me alone. This research is important."

"…but you haven't found anything yet."

There was something different about Denmark's tone now. It was softer, as though for once in his life he didn't want the rest of the house to hear. Norway turned to him in surprise, taking in the wear on his brother nations' features – the odd wrinkle in his broad forehead, the dusky shadow in the normally bright eyes, the strain in his shoulders, as though the muscles there were beginning to cramp.

The pieces fell into place, and Norway's eyes widened. "You're scared."

Denmark set his jaw.

"You _are_. You're afraid of the General."

"Mention it to anyone and I'll hack off your arm." It was a shallow threat, forced through Denmark's teeth. He didn't hurt family, when he could help it, and this certainly wasn't enough to bring on one of his rages. It was only his way of communicating his own shame.

Norway hesitated, then set the book aside. He turned his head purposefully to meet Denmark's eye, contemplating his words before he allowed them to have substance. "You're not a coward."

Denmark snorted. "Of course I'm not!"

"Still. This is a natural fear – a _smart_, natural fear. This is going to be dangerous. General Winter is dangerous. We all know what kind of man he is."

"Yeah – except he's not 'a man' at all." Denmark rolled his fingers and flexed the muscles in his hands, contemplating the thick veins of his own wrist. "Do you think He even bleeds? Or is it just, I dunno, antifreeze running through His veins?"

Norway shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know."

"And that's the problem." Denmark sighed and lowered his head. His arms were folded against the back of the couch and his chin rested upon the top of his arms, folded his face into a pout like a kicked puppy.

Norway regarded him slowly, pulled the book back into his lap and sighed. "If you want me to find out anything, you have to keep quiet. But you can stick around if you like."

Denmark smiled. He let one hand fall and gave a bit of Norway's hair an affectionate little twist. "Thanks, Nor. You're the best."

For the rest of the night, Norway was allowed to work in silence.

( - )

"You are watching me."

Iceland did not respond to Russia's accusation, not even allowing a flicker of surprise or regret to cross his face. His puffin, on the other hand, squawked in surprise. They sat in America's second-floor game room, each in one of two over-stuffed leather arm chairs that waited before the unplugged big screen TV. Russia lounged as though he owned the place, sipping from a mug whose hot chocolate had been replaced by the contents of a gleaming metal flask. Iceland was flipping through, but not reading, an uninteresting American fashion magazine.

Russia sipped his drink with a little sigh. "I suppose Denmark put you up to this? He does not trust me."

That much was true, and no secret – it wasn't in Denmark's nature to hide his feelings – but it was only part of the story. Iceland was asked to keep an eye on Russia because he shared Denmark's distrust.

Everyone knew that Russia was the General's favorite. He protected Russia against Napoleon and Hitler and a hundred lesser enemies lost to the icy cold. He was known to walk with Russia through the cold nights of Siberia as though the nation were an equal – a mere country, equal in might to the very fury of Winter itself! And now, He had stolen America, removing Russia's only rival, his long-time enemy, from the world. America, who was lured to the north by rumors of Russia's presence. Of course, Russia claimed to have been in his own home at the time; and yet, somehow, Russia was the first at the scene.

Iceland was a sensible nation. He prided himself on sensibility and logic. These convenient coincidences threw that logic off. Because of that, there was still a chance that Russia could not be trusted. Thus, he would observe the larger nation until he could be sure.

He felt Russia's eyes on him now, wandering up and down his comparatively tiny form. Iceland made quite a show of ignoring him.

"I suppose I cannot deter you, then," Russia said with a click of his tongue, gesturing to the smaller nation with his flask. "Would you like some vodka?"

Iceland twitched. "No."

"Suit yourself."

Russia took a long gulp directly from the flask, topped off his mug and turned back to the television. He stared at their reflections in its smooth surface the way an old man might contemplate a fire in its hearth. Iceland peered at the device over the top of his magazine and frowned at the image he found there. His puffin looked only bemused and preened its feathers like a peacock before a mirror. The silence between them was stifling, but not another word was spoken for the rest of the night.

( - )

Finland waited to call Estonia until his rifle was completely disassembled. The matte black pieces lay on the breakfast table in an orderly manner, with an old bath towel beneath them to protect the wood from scratches or gunpowder stains. The grey plastic of the portable phone, held against Finland's ear by his shoulder, seemed colder than the weapon somehow; the gun, at least, was familiar.

Estonia picked up after three rings, and Finland allowed himself a bit of a smile. "Ah, Eduard, good morning. Sorry to call so early, I just wanted to check on the boys while we had a chance to catch our breaths…well, it's just that I'm not really sure when I'll get another chance."

He sighed, shifted the phone around and picked up his sight, polishing the lens with a soft cloth. "I'll be frank, Eduard, there's been a bit of a complication. Yes, we found out what was keeping him. No, it's not good news, for anyone."

"…No, I think it would be best if we kept it among us."

Finland took a deep breath, setting down the now crystal-clear sight and picking up the part before he answered Estonia's prodding. "The truth is, America's gotten involved. We have reason to believe that he's…in trouble… and you know how people will react if they hear that. Half the world's economy could collapse before we got everything sorted out. Besides, the last thing we need is England charging into a situation he doesn't understand, putting us all in danger and making it even worse…"

"How do we know he would? Because Su-san and I would have the same instincts if it were Peter in America's place."

Sweden appeared from the kitchen then, bearing a mug of hot cocoa – real, home-made hot cocoa, not the powder that Russia had found in America's cabinet – which he sat on the table within Finland's reach. Finland smiled at him, nodded his thanks and fastened the two parts he held back together.

"Thank you, Eduard. I knew we could count on you for damage control," he continued, giving Sweden a thankful nod as well. Sweden disappeared back into the kitchen. "Yes, yes, of course we'll keep you updated as much as possible. Of course. Thank you. Now, may I speak to Peter? I'd put Su-san on, but he's a bit insecure about how hard he can be to understand over the phone…Thanks."

"…Peter?" Finland moved the phone into his hands and, for the first time since the conversation began, he stopped cleaning his gun. "Yes, it's me. Good morning, did you sleep well? … Did he? Poor Ravis, but at least you were there for him. Heh, that's a good boy…"

Standing just within the kitchen, Sweden listened in on his wifey's side of the conversation and allowed himself a small smile. He didn't like to smile much – people tended to find them more threatening than his usual expression, which was depressing – but in private, with no one to scare, it felt nice. Thinking of his family, even with such a dangerous mission on the horizon, only increased the feeling.

"Um, Berwald?"

Sweden blinked, adjusted his glasses and refocused on the interior of the kitchen. After a moment of staring, a figure finally reformed there – Canada, wearing an apron and holding a spatula. It was only then that Sweden remembered he was supposed to be keeping an eye on the younger nation, for moral support, and realized that said younger nation was starting to shake.

Sweden let the smile fade. Canada calmed down and turned back to the griddle, which held several pancakes, of which he had already made a somewhat frightening stack.

"…C'n'da?"

"Yes?"

"Wh'tya doin'?"

Very purposefully, Canada flipped one of the larger flapjacks and pressed it hard against the griddle. "I thought everyone might be hungry."

Sweden looked to the towering stack. Canada had already made at two-dozen flapjacks, not counting the five he'd separated out for his polar bear. "I d'n't think 'eir th't h'ngry."

Canada paused. Then he reached for the batter and ladled another three cakes onto the griddle. "It…It just helps me keep my head."

Sweden supposed that was understandable. After all, it was Canada's twin who was in danger, his closest ally and only bordering neighbor. The two were so interconnected that losing his brother must have been like losing a part of himself.

"'S gonna be 'kay."

Canada smiled tiredly. "No it's not. But that's nice of you to say. Has Norway found anything yet?"

Sweden shrugged, a little disappointed that his attempt at comfort hadn't worked. "Let'cha know wh'n 'e does."

"Thanks. You want some pancakes?"

He didn't really, but he took a plate nonetheless.

_**TBC…**_


	6. The Lights

I apologize for taking so long with this particular chapter. I've been a little distracted lately working on other projects. But don't worry, this story is almost finished on the Kink Meme, so I'll be sure to put it all here sooner or later…

**White Winter**

**Chapter Five: The Lights**

It was an impressive stack of pancakes.

Precariously balanced, it towered above even Sweden's head, once he was seated at the table like everyone else. An extra-large bottle of real Canadian maple syrup and two sticks of butter attended to the tower like diminutive ladies-in-waiting – they and the stack of clean plates were a non-too-subtle hint about the appropriate next action.

Still, the other Nordics stared up at the flapjack tower in wonder, then looked to Sweden, who shrugged. "C'n'da m'd'um."

"Oh my," said Finland, taking a plate and gathering his share with a smile. "That's lovely, Canada, thank you."

Canada gave a weak little smile of his own. "You…you can call me Matthew."

"Matthew, then." Finland's smile widened. The sniper rifle across his lap made it unnerving, which was probably what made Denmark accept his cut of the stack. The rest gathered their portions of their own accord, either out of manners or hunger – Russia in particular seemed oddly famished.

The scene provided Canada with both satisfaction and a mild burst of depression – the first because all cooks like to see others enjoying their hard work, and the second because it made him think of America, who would have announced that it was far too late for breakfast food before eating it anyway, because he enjoyed twenty-four-hour diners as much as any of his people.

"Enough of the hemmin' and hawin', Nor," Denmark announced once everybody had their makeshift meal, digging a fork into his stack of cakes almost violently. "You told me you found something, so out with it already. Mm…these things are pretty damn good."

Norway sighed, pushed his plate to the side and set his book on the table, spine-first. It fell open and its pages rustled apparently on its own, his friendly trolls fluttering through the entries. Norway settled back, laced his fingers and allowed a small sigh. "I have to be honest with you guys: this is not going to be easy."

"Well duh," said Iceland.

Finland nodded as well. "We never expected it to be."

"I don't just mean attacking General Winter's house; I mean getting there." Norway tapped the open page with a contemplative little hum. "There aren't any real records of our kind going to that place, and I can't find any accounts that prove empirically that it even exists. All we have to go on here are old legends and Russia's word."

Denmark snorted. "And we all know what that's worth."

Though his smile never wavered, Russia narrowed his violet eyes and Iceland began to wonder how much vodka had made it to his head. Before anyone could carry the argument further, Canada spoke up. "It's worth a lot, I think."

There was a brief moment of surprised silence. Norway broke it after a moment by clearing his throat. "Yes. Well, as I was saying…There are stories, old stories, from all over the world, about people – humans or other spirits mostly – who've been to see Winter. Well, various winters. You know what I mean."

They did. "General" Winter was only the standardized name they used to describe Him because they'd found he preferred it. The creature who was Winter had many different names throughout the world's ancient cultures, especially those in the north.

"Those stories are our only link right now."

Denmark scowled, sucking a few drops of maple syrup of his fork. "I don't know about you guys, but none of my old wives tales ever explained how to get anywhere. And I don't think climbing Swe's tree is going to help us either."

"I know." Norway's finger stopped tracing the page, and he suddenly glanced up with fierce intensity. "That's why the trolls suggested with try the Inuits – far northern Native Americans."

There was a moment of silence, then all eyes turned to Canada. The young nation blinked, turned pink, flustered a bit and said, "Oh. Okay, um. Give me a minute."

He bit the tip of his thumb and let his eyes trail away. There was a very long moment of silence. The other gathered nations continued to watch. After five minutes without a single sound, Denmark started to get restless. "Come on, kid, get on with it. It can't be that hard to remember your own history!"

Canada glanced at him, his violet gaze both distant and intense. "I'm not like you."

Denmark blinked. "Whuh?"

"America and I aren't like you guys," Canada repeated, the words coming slowly as he contemplated each one to avoid offending anyone. "We're not the sum result of our native tribes. We're immigrant nations, most of our people are transplants from the rest of the world. There are native people still living here, but they're not our core, so it takes a while to get in touch. Besides, the last time I heard these stories Al and I were still being passed around the Tribes in a cradle board."

Denmark shut up at that. Canada went back to thinking, staring intently at something the others couldn't see. A moment later, recognition flickered over his violet eyes and he turned to the pint-sized polar bear beside him. "Kumajiro… Nanuq uvunngapuq sanatuug? Negagfok angirraq."

The little polar bear made a noise like a housecat rolling over in its sleep. He sat there a moment, staring at his empty pancake plate. "Aqhaq."

Canada blinked. "The Lights?"

Kumajiro nodded. Canada turned back to the others. "He means the aurora," he explained. "Nanuq…the polar bear master…says that's the way to His home: the aurora borealis."

Norway's book suddenly dashed through all its pages at high speed, then slammed shut and fell against the table with a thump. Its owner blinked. "The fae seem to concur."

"Great," said Denmark, grinding his teeth. "And just what does that mean?"

Sweden looked thoughtful, stroking his chin with one powerful hand. "B'fr'st?"

Finland knocked a fist into his palm excitedly. "Of course, the bridge!"

"Is that possible?" Iceland asked, his gaze firmly on Norway.

"It may be." Norway ran a hand along the binding of his book with a thoughtful sound. "We should at least try. When do they appear in this region?"

"At this time of the year?" Canada glanced out the window. "Very early morning, usually."

"Then we better start planning…"

As the Nordics fell into debates of logistics, packing and nightly watch, Canada looked to their final member, who remained as strangely quiet as ever. Russia seemed to be contemplating the remains of his pancakes, using his fork to draw strange shapes in what was left of the syrup. The expression on his face was unreadable. Canada wondered what he could possibly be thinking.

The young nation was startled out of his thoughts by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He found Finland standing over him, a soft smile on his face. "Matthew, I think it'd be best if you got some sleep now."

"I'm all right," said Canada quickly. "Really, I'm fine, I can stay up as long as you guys need me."

Finland clicked his tongue. "You're exhausted. This whole thing is taking a lot of you. You need your rest."

"But I…"

"Most everyone else will be tucking in soon enough," Finland continued, pulling the younger, taller nation up by the arm. "Trust me, we all need it, but you more so than most. We're setting up a watch for the aurora tonight. If anything happens, we'll wake you the second we know."

Canada tightened his hand into a fist and bit his lip. The idea of sleep made his stomach flip-flop. How could he sleep with his nerves alight with the tangible wrongness of missing America? What's more, there was a tacit assumption that he would take America's bed, which brought to mind the rest that Alfred must have been preparing for when the General attacked…

"Don't start thinking too much," Finland dropped Kumajiro into Canada's hands and gave his arm a squeeze. "You'll drive yourself insane, and this is no time for that. Trust me, Matthew, a bit of sleep will be good for all of us."

Canada took a deep breath through his nose and released it with a sigh. "Alright, Fin…Tino. If you insist."

He made for the stairs. Half-way up he felt eyes boring into his back. He turned and met Russia's eye. The larger nation was sucking the last bits of maple syrup from the prongs of his fork, like a child, and the meaning of his expression was hauntingly unknown.

Canada hesitated, then nodded to his distant neighbor politely and continued to the second floor. His joints ached with every step and his bones felt heavy with a weary cold. Perhaps some sleep would do him good after all.

_**TBC…**_

"_Kumajiro… Nanuq uvunngapuq sanatuug? Negagfok angirraq."_ - "Kumajiro…Does Nanuq know how to go there? Negagfok's home." in most likely butchered Inuit. I tried to stick to what the online dictionary defined as originating from Baffin Island in Nanavut, but it was sometimes hard to tell, and of course, I know nothing about the grammar.

Nanuq, pronounced and sometimes Romanized as Nanook or Nanuk, is the Inuit word for polar bear and also the name of the polar bear 'god,' for lack of a better term. You see, certain kinds of animals, like polar bears and caribou, are known to have a sort of collective spirit or master that connects them. Hence how Kumajiro, who's something like Canada's shaman-istic familiar in my head-canon, is able to tap into a bit of that ancient wisdom just by being Kumajiro.

Likewise, Nagafok is a spirit of weather systems, particularly cold winter ones – the closest Inuit equivalent I could find for General Winter.

_Aqhaq_ - Northern Lights.

_Bifrost_ - Sweden's B'fr'st; the burning rainbow bridge of Norse mythology that connected the natural world (Midgard) with the realm of the gods (Asgard).


	7. Flowers, Memories and Dreams

Disclaimer: I still don't own anything involved with this story, I just think this space looks silly when it's left empty.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Six: Flowers, Memories and Dreams**

"Mattie, Mattie!"

Canada blinked, looking up at a brilliant blue sky through the tall grass and brilliant red-and-white flowers that towered around him. A second later, the sun was blocked by a grinning shadow – his brother. Canada rolled to his knees. The grass tickled his chin. "What, Al?"

America giggled, his childish face glowing gold in the sunlight. "I made you something. Here!"

He pulled a chain of flowers from behind his back and slipped it over Canada's head. A few bright blue blossoms were woven between the red and white, standing out like exceptionally bright stars behind otherwise blinding northern lights. The wreath was too big for Canada's head, so it fell to his neck and hung there like winner of a horse race.

Canada examined, careful not to disturb the delicate knot work that held the flowers together. His small fingers were somewhat clumsy, but none of his touches were heavy enough to disrupt his brother's craftsmanship. "Wow. Thanks, Al. It's so pretty."

"I knew you'd like it!" America said, his grin growing impossibly wider with every word. "I had to go a long way to get those blue ones, so you better be grateful! You wanna see where I found them?"

Canada nodded and America bounded off, leaving a clear path through the long grass for his brother to follow behind. Canada stopped for only a second, to pick up Kumajiro. Cold air burst against the back of his neck, destroying his wreath and chilling him to the bone.

Canada shuddered and turned back the way his brother had gone. Dark clouds now covered the sun, smothering its warmth. The flowers were dead of frost, those few that remained drained of their color. America was nowhere to be seen.

"Alfred?" Canada called, clutching his teddy bear close. "Brother, where are you?"

Another harsh, icy wind blew through the now-barren field, snapping the last of the flowers from their thin, dead stalks. It carried with it a laughter, dark and horrible and loud, but not quite loud enough to hide the scream that punctuated the air.

Canada's heart clenched in his chest. A second later, he burst into a run. "Alfred! Alfred, answer me! Are you all right? Alfred! America!"

The horrible laughter only grew laughter, as did the howling of the cold wind as it whipped around Canada's body in gale. Canada clung to his teddy bear, screamed for his brother and tripped, crashing to the ground. He moaned in pain at his scraped elbows and knees, rolled over and glanced back at what had tripped him.

America stared back at him from the cold, barren ground. His eyes were stretched wide, but colorless as the dead flowers. His once-golden hair was silvered with ice, his lips were tainted blue and he did not move, not even to breathe.

Canada stared, voiceless with horror, at the frozen, dead form of his brother. The General's horrible laughter echoed in his ears, louder and louder with each passing moment. And America was dead.

Canada screamed and finally woke.

He jerked straight up his brother's bed, dropping Kumajiro to the floor. He sat there a moment, gasping for breath, then flung aside the sweat-drenched sheets and fled the room. He couldn't stay there. He needed some fresh air.

He thumped down the stairs in his pajamas and bare feet, careful to keep the sound as soft and unnoticeable as he could. No one in the house stirred. Denmark snored away on the living room couch, his axe in its cover slung across his waist; his other hand drifted low to where Norway slept on the rug, tangling with the smaller nation's hair. The guestroom that Sweden and Finland shared as silent, as was the game room that Iceland had claimed as his den. Besides Canada himself, everyone inside the house was fast asleep.

Outside, on the porch, Russia was waiting.

Canada did not notice the larger nation until after the door had latched behind him – even the icy, post-midnight air took that long to clear his baffled senses. Still, Russia did not acknowledge his presence. Instead, he continued to stand at the very edge of the porch, his gloved hands resting on the ice-incrusted wooden banister, standing up at their clear winter night and its endless, sprawling stars.

Canada hesitated before he approached. Russia did not turn to him until he too stood at the railing. The northern power's violet eyes were unreadable, except for the trace bits of curiosity that lurked in their depths. "It is not time to change watch yet, comrade."

"I couldn't sleep," Canada said with a weak shrug.

"Ah. A nightmare."

Canada felt his cheeks heat up, in spite of the cold. Was he really that easy to read?

"It is nothing to be ashamed of," Russia continued in an off-hand manner. "I am told that such dreams are only to be expected, when one knows that their loved ones are in danger."

"I suppose so," muttered Canada, and wondered about the wording of Russia's statement. There was something sad about it, this distant bit of hearsay. Did Russia, with all his tremulous history, really not know what it was like to fear for another's safety?

Still, it was not Canada's place to pry. To his relief, Russia did not inquire about the dream, either. They stood there for a while in silence, with Russia watching the stars and Canada fighting the image of his dream-brother – so young, so familiar, so dead – from his mind. In the wake of that nightmare, his mind grasped onto any thought it could to wipe clean the slate, and so he turned his eyes to Russia once more. "Can I ask you a question?"

Russia glanced at him without moving his head. "Da?"

"Why are you helping us?"

Russia blinked. It was a slow motion that took five full seconds, which left Canada feeling a bit unnerved, but he did not break the gaze. Russia turned his head to look at the younger nation fully and did not change his expression, those his voice was a bit cold as he said, "Why do you ask?"

"It's just a bit weird," Canada said, deciding that honesty was probably the best policy here. "You don't owe anything to any of us, you've always worked well enough with General Winter and, hell, I though you hated America."

"And whatever gave you that idea?"

"Um…The Cold War?"

Russia chuckled at that, and Canada felt a bit of tension sink out of his shoulders. The larger nation turned his eyes to the sky once more and let the laughter fade with a light sigh. "That was a complicated time, neighbor. I trust that you understand. Nevertheless, I do not hate your brother. We are rivals, not enemies."

Canada leaned against the railing. "I don't know that there's much of a difference."

"There is," said Russia with confidence. "Enemies bring you no good. They add nothing to your life but pain and frustrations. On the contrary, rivals exist to define your life, by showing the things that you could be, but are not."

It was an odd thing to say but, coming from Russia at three o'clock in the morning, it sounded almost normal. Canada allowed himself a small smile. "Is that why you want him back?"

"Perhaps."

Russia would say no more on the subject. Canada let the silence hang over them for a moment, worrying his bottom lip and wondering how far he dared to question, as long as he had Russia in a talkative mood. His morbid curiosity won out in the end. "What was it like, there?"

Russia stiffened at that. "There?"

"In…In the General's home." Canada licked his lips. The cold night air made the liquid bite, which brought his thoughts a bit of clarity and definition. "What did He do to you?"

"You mean, what is He doing to America, now?"

Canada winced. The Russian's tone was harsher now, more biting. Perhaps the wound was still too raw? "I…"

"You know what He is like," said Russia. It was not a question. "You have been with Him before."

"I have." Canada bit his lip at the memory. His first time with the General left him with a frostbitten left arm that didn't move for a week; another left him bedridden for two days. And he'd seen the damage wrought on older, stronger nations than he – even Sweden and Demark never came away without a scratch. The only one who refused to be tended after his turn was Russia, the unfortunate favorite himself.

"Then you know."

"I know what he's like for a night," Canada argued, closing the gap between the two of them to try for a glance at Russia's face. "But living with him, day after day, there has to be more. He can't always be like that."

Russia glanced to him coldly. A horrible thought shot through Canada's mind, and he stuttered. "He…He _can't._ Can He?"

Russia's expression was as imperceptible as ever. Then he turned away with a sigh. "No. He cannot, and He is not."

Canada let out a breath of relief.

"As I told you, He brought me there when I was very young – a child. The alternative was to live among invaders; my General took me from there for my own protection. I was given a small room, adjacent to His, and lived my days there alone."

A disgusting squirm began to rise in Canada's stomach. He wondered if he'd pushed it too far, said too much, but he couldn't stop the flow of information now. Russia was lost in the memory, staring up at the icy trail of stars in the night, speaking without a single change of emotion or pitch in his hollow, distant voice.

"Some nights he left me there, to my own devices. These were the best. I was given food and water as I needed them – by who, I do not know – and permitted a few toys to keep myself entertained. As long as I stayed quiet, He did not care.

"Other times, He came only to carry me through His home as though I were a doll. I did not set foot on the floor those nights. He often changed my clothes, though I was old enough even then to do so alone, and brought me to His bed to sleep. Nothing more – only sleep. He would not permit me to move until His rest was complete, but He did not take things further. These nights were better than most.

"But on most nights…" Here, Russia paused, swiveled his eyes and narrowed the gaze at Canada harshly, unyielding and unwilling to sacrifice the truth. "On most nights, He was as He is when he comes to we nations in our furs and beds. Most nights, He chose not to hear a child's cry. Most nights, He did exactly as he pleased."

Canada closed his eyes tightly. His hands were shaking on the banister, and it took everything in his power not to vomit right there. "Oh god, Russia, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Look."

Canada forced open his eyes just in time to see a tongue of green fire dance across the sky. Seconds later, it was joined by a dozen other colors – red, white, orange, purple, all dancing across the dark canvas of the sky. The Aurora Borealis, in all its glory, was unmistakable. Even after seeing it so many times, it still took his breath away.

Russia glared at the lights intently, his huge hands trembling with anticipation though his expression was once again blank. "Awaken the others, Canada," he said. "It is time for us to leave."

_**TBC…**_


	8. At the General's Hands

**WARNING: **This chapter contains some explicit abuse and semi-explicit rape. It's mostly checking in on how America is doing, but it's not completely vital to the story, so please don't risk a trigger if you think it might set you off.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Seven: At the General's Hands**

It was cold. Cold, cold, _cold._

The ice burned America's lungs and throat as he burst awake, scraping the delicate soft tissues to hell. His mouth filled with the taste of copper shavings as the blood dribbled into his stomach. He clutched his throat and jerked to sit up, only to bash his head on the clear barrier above him.

America groped with his hands, feeling out the definition of his prison. The cold bit his fingers like a living being. With a strangled cry, he curled them into fists and pounded the barrier for all he was worth. Even with all of his strength, it would not budge.

It was too cold.

He pounded harder, using both fists, channeling all of his strength into his arms. His knuckles split open, staining the ice with blood. It dripped back into his eyes. He tried to scream, but his throat was torn to shreds.

Suddenly, the barrier was gone, lifted away by an unseen hand. America jerked straight up, gasping for air that did not burn his lungs with ice, only to be slammed back into the fur-lined box by an arm across his shoulders like a metal bar.

"Hm," said the General, as though observing a change in the weather. "Too warm."

America choked, coughing up a mouthful of blood. It stained the white fur beside his head. General Winter made a tut-tut noise with his tongue and lifted America from his coffin like a doll. America tried to struggle, but Nation's bodies took time to recover from death and what little energy he'd managed to store had been wasted on his instinctive struggles. So he lay helpless in General Winter's grasp and allowed himself to be carried to the bed.

General Winter traced a single large finger from America's mouth to his navel, leaving a smear of blood across his throat and tracing the shape of ribs beneath cloth and flesh. "We will…experiment, yes?"

America snapped up one arm, knocking himself from the General's grasp and onto the bed. He rolled over, clutched his still-bleeding hands and hissed, "Hands off, freak."

The General only smiled. "You fear me."

It was not a question, so America did not grace it with an answer. He didn't need to. Most of his trembling came from weak muscles trying to repair themselves, but not all. He did not look the General in the eye.

"You did not fear my Vanya."

"Don't even try to compare yourself to him," America rasped. His mouth filled once more with the taste of copper. "Russia is not like you."

An odd expression flickered across the General's features. America knew it to be possessive – but of who?

He wasn't allowed to wonder for too long. The General reached around him, seized his left arm and pulled it around where he could see. It twisted his shoulder painfully. America winced and tried to correct his position, but the General held him down, face-first against the bed.

General Winter examined the wounds that America had caused himself. He ran his tongue along the knuckles, lapping up the blood and leaving behind an icy tinge. A low moan rumbled from deep in his throat. "So _warm_."

Then, he attached his lips to the wound and breathed.

The blood in America's veins froze instantly, ice shooting from his fingertips down the length to his elbow. America yelped as all the joints in his hand locked up, frozen as solid as a statue in the General's grip.

General Winter held the now-frozen arm in a delicate grip, as though grasping a rose made of glass. Then he forced it savagely into the small of America's back. His wrist, radius and ulna, left fragile in their frozen states, shattered; the elbow was fractured as well. America screamed and spammed against the mattress, flecks of blood staining the pillow beneath his face. General Winter's smile widened.

He repeated the process on America's right limb, this time sparing the elbow but splintering the upper arm. Pain shot through America's mind like flash grenades, rendering him blind. When it finally cleared enough for him to think, he found that he couldn't move his arms at all now – both were not only froze, but bound, each hand tucked unnaturally into the curve of the opposite elbow.

General Winter lay beside him now, stretched along the length of the giant bed. He pat America's hair with gentle, blood-stained hands and toyed lazily with Nantucket. America was so numb from the pain and the cold that he didn't even feel it.

Winter cupped his hand around America's head and pulled him forward for a kiss. America closed his eyes and waited for frozen oblivion, but it never came. The General took his time, exploring the warmth of America's mouth with the icy slug that was his tongue. Soon enough America had a worse ice cream headache than any he could remember. He whimpered and the General finally stopped.

The General smiled, petting America's cheek with one hand as the other trailed down his back to the waistband of his pants. "Lift."

America didn't move. The General's smile wavered, and he pressed his nails against America's cheek. "Do as you're told."

America closed his eyes and turned his head away. His legs twitched, but he had neither the focus nor the energy to follow the order, even if he'd wanted to.

"Can't?" said the General with a sniff. "Fine."

He moved away and tugged up America's hips by the waistband. He slid his arms around America's waist, undid the fly and pulled the cloth down around his 'pet's knees with a single swift tug.

America bit his lip and buried his eyes in the pillow, pressing Texas against his face. He felt the General's fingers prodding at his entrance, pressing in and stretching him open, and _god_, but it hurt. It'd been a long time since he'd been with another nation, and those times were always easier because of the raw warmth of wanting and being wanted and _oh god what was that…?_

America lost control of a slight cry as General Winter entered him. He tried to twist away, but the General held firm to his broken, bound arms – which were going to heal in all the wrong positions and they'd have to break them again and again and oh, god, it hurt. America refused to scream, refused to give his captor that sort of pleasure and instead bit the pillow, muffling what cries tried to erupt as the General fucked him ruthlessly.

He thought he might go mad. Then, on the edge of his consciousness, he found it: comfort.

The presence there was familiar, a part of him yet not, and so close though it was also far away. It reached out to him with a familiar touch, cool-not-cold and welcoming, like fresh powder on the slopes, like a white Christmas, like mountaintops in June. It stroked his mind and soothed him, returning the sanity he'd almost lost and assuring them that someone out there was coming for him. Someone he knew as well as he knew himself.

"Mattie…"

The name slipped from America's lips. General Winter stopped. They were still.

Then, the General growled, seized America by his hair and slammed his face into the stone headboard. Texas's lenses shattered, leaving great fissures in the glass, but America barely had time to register that before it happened again and again and again. His nose was shattered, blood poured from his forehead and he couldn't even muster a cry.

General Winter roared like a beast, cold wind from nowhere freezing everything around them. He was yelling something, his voice like thunder, but it was in an ancient language that America could not have understood even if he could hear it properly. He came within three thrusts, shooting deep within America's body, and America shouted in pain as bitter cold rushed into his lower regions.

Then he was lifted again, away from the bed, supported only by his hair and his broken arms. General Winter flung him like a ragdoll and he struck the wall so hard that he left a deep dent in the blue stone. He fell to the floor and Winter was upon him once more, his pale face purple with rage, and only America's metal collar prevented him from throttling the blonde.

"Mine!" he snarled. "Mine, mine, mine, mine!"

"_Only in your dreams,"_ America thought, but with the blood welling up in his mouth, he could only gurgle in response. That final, satisfying bit of resistance was the last thing that went through his head before his consciousness was mercifully snuffed out.

( - )

The General stopped.

There was blood everywhere now, upon his hands, upon his bed, upon his wall. His new toy lay unmoving on the floor, broken and bound. The area below his waist was turning blue.

General Winter snarled, pressed his hands over his face and tasted the blood. It was so warm, as it had been inside, so welcoming, so good. Why, why did it have to be spoiled, why did everything have to be spoiled, why could it not just stay, perfect and untouched, like his frozen world?

It would be. Yes, he would make it so. His toy would have to learn, as his Vanya had learned, with time. Yes, he _would_ learn; or someone would pay.

_**TBC…**_


	9. Summoning Bifrost

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything involved here. I just think this space looks silly without something here.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Eight: Summoning Bifrost**

Green light danced across the sky in mighty waves, sweeping through the darkness like brush strokes on a giant's canvas. It danced high above the icy field where the gathered northern nations trekked, following an old footpath and the whispered directions of Norway's magical companions.

"This is the place," the aforementioned mystically-attuned nation reported, coming to a halt in what seemed the dead center of the field. "This is where the lay-lines meet up. We'll be able to call it down from here."

"Great," said Denmark, adjusting the sling that held his axe upon his back. "And just how do we do that?"

Norway didn't bother to answer. He replaced the crystal in his pocket and glanced to Iceland. "You know what to do."

"Right," muttered the island, unenthusiastic. His puffin fluttered to his head as he reached for a large pouch hanging from his belt. He dipped in a hand and drew out a palm full of dark grey powder filled with glittering specks.

Canada craned his head for a look, shifting the backpack that Kumajiro was riding in to do so. "What is that?"

"Volcanic ash and sea salt," said Iceland, beginning to spread the mixture around them in a vague circle.

"The ash is just so we can see and the salt won't completely dissolve," added Norway, nodding absently to the half-melted snow that filled their current location. "And it's natural enough that it won't disrupt the salt's natural purifying properties."

Canada hummed to himself. "Makes sense, I guess."

Norway ran his finger down one of his book's yellowed pages and followed Iceland with his eyes until the circle was complete. "Make sure you close it."

"I know, I know." Iceland scowled. "Sheesh, I'm not an idiot."

Canada turned his eyes skyward. Some nervous part of his mind whispered that the lights seemed to be getting dimmer, but he brushed that off as paranoia the best he could. Seeking something else to think about, he let his gaze wander to Russia, who was also staring at the sky. Canada wondered what the larger nation was thinking about – was the aurora bringing back memories of his time with the General, or was he thinking about America? There was something strange in Russia's voice when spoke of rivals and enemies, something almost familiar, but Canada couldn't put his finger on it…

With a huff, Iceland finished off the circle to Norway's expectations, sealing the seven nations into a protective magical bubble. Norway consulted his books, glanced up at the lights for an unknown confirmation, then looked to Sweden. "God, I hope this works….Get ready. On my mark."

Sweden nodded and drew from his own bag an old instrument carved from the horn of a goat. He brought it to his lips and waited as Norway watched the sky with one hand raised. They sat there, in breathless anticipation, until the lights drifted so close that one almost imagined they could reach up and grasp them.

Norway let his hand drop, and Sweden let out a long blast on his horn. It echoed through the field like the call of a moose, and then the lights were moving again, away from its usually path and stretching towards the ground. A gleaming path of shimmering green, yellow and white touched down on the edge of their protective circle, its originating point trailing back until it lay at a halfway decent angle.

Norway slammed his book shut and grabbed Denmark's sleeve. "That's it. Move. Now."

Finland moved first, seizing Canada's arm and darting for the makeshift bridge. Sweden was close behind, still holding his horn, and the others were just as close. Iceland was the last, leaping onto the lights just as they were lifting off of the ground once more.

The aurora's bridge was slick, but not as slick as ice, a little like walking on a pane of textured glass. Finland kept a tight grip on Canada's arm as he sprinted up the path, muttering something about not wanting to lose anyone on the way. Canada was too busy keeping up with the speedy little nation to quite understand.

When the path was finally flat once more, they found themselves in an empty world.

It was not quite dark. Rather, it was the same strange grey that filled a cloudy sky when sunrise came at the same time as a violent storm. The ground they stood on did not feel like ground, for it was too smooth and speckled with the occasional rock the size of a man's head and as gleaming as polished jewels. From a distance, when the grey smoke parted enough, these rocks looked like stars. It was like walking on top of the sky.

Norway blinked. "I can't believe it. It worked."

Denmark laughed out loud, clapping the smaller nation on the shoulder so hard that he nearly fell over. "Knew you could do it, pal, didn't I tell you, I knew you could do it!"

Iceland glanced around, shifting away from Russia as his puffin squawked its concern. "Where are we?"

"Where we need to be," said Russia in a tone that was neither completely childish nor wise. Norway, Denmark and Iceland all shot him suspicious looks, but said nothing.

"Well, we made it this far," Finland said with a smile, patting the holster of his rifle brightly. "No sense in turning back now. Where do we go from here?"

"I don't know."

Everyone stared at Norway. Finland took a deep breath and repeated the words as calmly as he could. "You don't know?"

Norway glanced at him, using annoyance in a poor attempt to mask the fear that radiated in his eyes. "I told you, there's no records of anyone making this trip before us. I have no idea where we're going, or what to expect. I jerry-rigged a spell from some old stories and the advice of a polar bear god. My resources are spent."

A howling wind swept about them, chilling them to the bone even in their heavy clothes. Sweden shivered and pulled Finland closer. Denmark spat on the ground. "Great. Just great. What the hell are we supposed to do from –"

"Hold on," said Canada. "Do you hear that?"

The group stopped in their tracks. Denmark reached for his axe. "Hear what?"

"Just listen."

Though no one moved, there was a rustling sound, like clothes, and a thumping, like footsteps. Laughter without an owner followed close nearby. Finland shivered and shifted closer to Iceland with a protective gaze. "What is that?"

Canada glanced to Kumajiro. The little polar bear lifted his head, sniffed at the air and said, "Taqriqsuit."

"Shadow people," Canada translated, his tone tinted with a bit of awe. "We must be closer to their world here. They're not evil, nor more than humans, so I wonder if…"

"There!" Norway pointed at a dark figure, barely more than a shade, that hovered alongside their path. The others only caught a glimpse of the dark figure before it vanished, sinking into the ground like a stone into the water.

Canada hurried after it. "Wait, please!" he called, then switched to a native tongue that was a bit more coaxing. "Iq…takugiik. Uvagut ajuqsatippaa."

The haze did not respond. Something moved on the corner of their vision but, at Norway's warning hand, they did not turn after it. A voice followed soon after, speaking in a language that none of them knew, yet could understand: **"What need have you?"**

Canada glanced over his shoulder. Finland nodded his encouragement and Sweden gave a supportive grunt. Canada swallowed his nerves and turned back to the air. "Guidance. Direction."

"**Where?"**

"Winter's home."

There was silence. Then, a shadow pooled at Canada's feet like a puddle of ink. It rose into a human form without definition and details soon followed, fleshing it into the form of a young girl made entirely of darkness. She wore furs and long braids and resembled the native people who lived in the far north. She regarded them all without a word and settled her gaze on Canada himself.

"**Well then,"** she said, **"you **_**are**_** going to need help."**

_**TBC…**_

Note: In Inuit spiritualism, the Taqriqsuit or "Shadow People" are said to live like we do in a world that is like our own, but beyond our perception. They are almost never seen, but they are sometimes heard – like when you hear footsteps in your room at night, or laughter when nobody else is around. Stories say that some of our people have crossed into their world, but very few have ever returned to tell the tale. Yet, the Taqriqsuit are not evil – they're just shy.

"Iq…takugiik. Uvagut ajuqsatippaa." – "Wait…friend. We are in need."


	10. The Borders Between

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything involved here. I just think this space looks silly without something here.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Nine: The Borders Between**

Her name was Ulloriaq, and she seemed inordinately fond of Iceland. Though she spoke mostly with Canada – whom she seemed to assume was the leader of their little party, much to said nation's discomfort – she hovered close to the island nation at all times, giggled at every little thing he said and tried, on at least three occasions, to hold his hand. Iceland was not happy with this new development, but he endured the hour they followed in her footsteps, if only because Finland and Norway kept up a silent guard to make sure he kept their guide happy.

Even after so much time had passed, there was very little change of scenery. The light had changed from a clean green to a cool ice blue, and the temperature shifted down a few degrees, but that was all. They hadn't even come across another of the Taqriqsuit. There was only stillness.

"I gotta say, we don't see your kind very often," Ulloriaq said to Canada, dangling from Iceland's arm and screwing up her face in a cute little pout. "Nations, I mean. Humans stumble in on occasion, and we get plenty of shamans wandering through in trances, but Nations…We don't have them in our world, only countries."

Denmark snorted. "What's the difference?"

"You, I guess." Ulloriaq shrugged. "Or maybe it's the borders. Our countries don't really have them, they just kinda end, you know? They turn into this."

She nodded to the emptiness around them, the smoke and darkness and gleaming rocks. Norway followed her gaze, flipping through the pages of a small, newer journal that he'd brought with them and nibbling on the end of his pen. "But what is this?"

Again, Ulloriaq shrugged. "It's In-Between Place. We don't need to know another word for it. It's just the way you get to other countries."

A cold wind howled through the emptiness, cutting the shadow-girl off in mid-thought. She stopped, dragged Iceland to a halt and shuddered from head to toe. The other nations followed her lead, coming to a halt. "What is it?" Canada asked.

"That doesn't happen in-between," Ulloriaq said softly. "Weather only happens on the edge of countries…"

Sweden grunted in surprise, his head jerking suddenly to the right. Finland reached for his gun. "Su-san, what is it?"

"G't d'wn," Sweden said, hitting the deck and tugging Canada and Finland down with him. Denmark and the others followed suit, but only after a fierce rumbling, like an explosion in the distance, jarred the ground beneath their feet. They ducked below the fog level and pressed close to the ground as the explosion grew closer and faster, building up into a more and more familiar rhythm.

"Footsteps," Denmark muttered, voicing their collective thoughts just before the source of the noise appeared directly in front of them.

He was a hulking giant eight stories tall, with feet as long as a city bus and hands the size of large tanks. His huge footsteps, each as long as a football field, rumbled over the space in-between like thunder. He passed directly over them, sending fog dancing in all directions in his wake, and thumped off into the distance. A harsh winter wind accompanied him, laden with ice and snow. He paused for only a moment, far too close for comfort, and then continued on until he finally disappeared once more into the darkness.

Ulloriaq clung to Iceland with both arms and did not speak until the giant was well away. "Those creatures only live in Winter's country. They follow him. Everyone there does." She stood then and scurried away from the nations, turning back after only a few feet. "I can't go any further than this. None of us ever do. Just keep going straight, the way I told you, and you'll reach it."

"Oh, come on!" Iceland insisted, hopping up. "You can't just leave us with that junk! Can't you tell us anything?"

Ulloriaq looked pained, but shook her head. "I'm sorry. I've never been there. It's not a country that people can leave because they want to. Winter…and those things that work for him…are the only creatures that ever come out of there." She darted close, moving faster than they would have guessed, and gave Iceland a single peck on the cheek. "Be careful in there. Please."

Then she darted away and sank back into the shadows where she belonged.

Iceland rubbed his cheek. "That was awkward."

"I dunno," said Denmark with a chuckle as he slung his arm around the smaller nation's shoulders. "I thought you made a cute couple."

"Shut up."

Another rumbling footstep echoed through the air, and Demark hit the deck on instinct, slamming Iceland down with him. Nothing came of the sound, and the giant, wherever her was, stayed far away.

The nations picked themselves up, tension sinking from their muscles. Finland brushed flecks of moisture and sparkling dust from his rifle. "We should keep moving…Matthew, what's wrong?"

"I'm fine," the younger nation said from the ground, where he still knelt with one hand pressed against his forehead. "I just felt a little…oh god…"

Realizing what was about to happen a second before it did, the other nations flinched away and gave Canada what little privacy they could before he emptied the contents of his stomach into the fog. When he was done, he gagged and wiped his lip on the back of a mitten. "Oh, jeez, I am so sorry…"

"What happened?" Finland pressed, reaching up to feel the younger nation's forehead. "Are you sick?"

"Nah, it's nerves," Denmark said, flicking a finger across his nose cockily. "God knows near-death encounters like with those giant freaks have scared the breakfast out of braver folks, let me tell you."

"Or he could be having an allergic reaction to the magic in this realm," Norway provided helpfully.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Canada said, waving off the Nordics' concerned examinations and Sweden's attempt to lift him onto his back. "Berwald, stop, really. I'm fine. It was just…my head. I was just trying because I thought I heard…" He trailed off and let his eyes wander away, suddenly self-conscious about what he was about to reveal. "…It's nothing. I'm fine. Really."

"Canada," said Finland, and his voice held hint of a threatening scold that wielded parental authority.

Canada shifted awkwardly and flashed back to his own colony-hood, though in truth it had been America who was target of England's accusations more than himself. "It's…It's sort of complicated. America and I…since we were so close, I was just trying to check on him and…"

The feeling he'd found there was not vivid, but it hurt, as though he was absorbing it through layers of foam and protective padding. His head still pounded with the effort, emphasized by the lingering pain. The thought that his brother was going through such abuse right now made his stomach churn once more.

Canada covered his mouth with his hand, closed his eyes and turned away, curling against his own shoulder as though that could hide him from the others' gaze. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

Denmark heaved a sigh and made his way over, patting Canada's shoulder so hard that the shorter nation nearly fell over. "Don't worry, kid. We'll get him back and you won't have to worry about it."

The others nodded their own support and made sure Canada was stable on his feet before continuing on their way. Canada was just falling into step behind them when a silver flask was suddenly pressed into his stomach. He blinked and looked up at Russia, who smiled down at him in a way that might have been called kind, if it wasn't also terrifying. "Vodka is good for the stomach, da?"

"Uhm…thank you?" Canada took the flask and tried to decide whether it was a good idea to refuse, despite the protests of his squirming stomach. He settled for taking a tiny sip and stifling a since when it burned on the way down.

Russia seemed pleased enough, and took back his flask without complaint. They'd fallen to the back of the group by now, so Canada took the opportunity to slip up beside the larger nation and say, "Listen, Russia, about what happened before…on the porch? I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Russia said without looking at him. "I have put it behind me."

Canada stopped. "I don't believe you."

Russia stopped as well and glanced back. "What?"

"I don't believe you," said Canada with a confidence that even he could not really identify. "It's not possible. There's no way that anyone, even you, could move past something like that on your own."

"And what makes you think I was alone?"

"Who else would you go to, for something like this?"

Russia's gaze narrowed, but he didn't try to deny or confirm anything. From the front the group, Denmark called back. "Holy shit, guys. I think that's it."

And so they stepped into Winter's Country, not yet knowing what lay ahead.


	11. ChildSnatchers

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything involved here. I just think this space looks silly without something here.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Ten: Child-Snatchers**

Their first steps into Winter's world were blinded by snow. Black became white and stillness became chaos as wind swept across the icy plane. The nations huddled together like penguins, forming a protective wall against the cold that made Iceland's puffin very happy. After a moment, the wind cleared and the finally got their first look at Winter's home.

It was a huge thing, a palace really, waiting for them at the peak of a mountain. It seemed to have been carved from the icy earth itself, its intricate carvings and precise angles hinting at millennia of hard work from skilled craftsmen. Blue stone swirled throughout the white like marble, and a huge tower kept watch in each cardinal direction, though there was no light to indicate that anyone dwelt there now. There was no path up the mountain, but there were no visible obstructions either, only rock, ice, snow and a few scraggily pine trees.

Denmark unbuckled his belt, swung his axe into a battle-ready grip and glanced around. "See anything?"

"No," said Finland softly. Of everyone there, he had the sharpest eyes.

"No guards? No traps? No soldiers?"

"Nothing."

"Why would he bother?" Iceland said, his hands trailing to his belt, where a pair of pistols hung in wait. "No one's ever been stupid enough to attack him before."

Canada swallowed and held more tightly onto Kumajiro. His sickness was quickly being overcome by nerves. It was ridiculous, really – he'd seen battle before, dozens of them, hundreds. But he didn't own a gun, not one he'd be comfortable fighting with, and even though he was confident with his own skill, not having a weapon at his fingertips as the Nordics did was unsettling. The fact that Russia did not have a weapon visible either was almost a comfort.

They made their way up the mountain, but only reached the third semi-flat ledge when Sweden suddenly stopped. He jerked his head to one side and sniffed the air like a dog. Finland signaled to the others, stepped close to him and whispered, "What is it, Su-san?"

"S'lf'r."

Finland blinked. "Sulfur?"

Denmark took a whiff of the air. "Hey, I smell it too. From down there."

He pointed back down the mountain, further to the east than the path of their ascent. There, two ridges met to form a deep crevice, from which an ugly creature peered. Its face was flat and void of a nose, dark eyes and wide seemingly carved into position by a knife. Its skin was scaly and bumpy, its dangling arms unnaturally long with webbed fingers and its hair like black sea draped over its melon-like head. When it noticed them staring, it barred rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth and let out a violent hiss. Another one shuffled from the crevice below and repeated the noise with an accompanying rude gesture.

Canada stared in surprise. "Those are…"

"You know them?" asked Norway, his pen already hovering over the blank page of his notebook.

"They look like Qallupilluk," Canada said, digging around in his old memories of ancient stories and whispered warnings around native camps. "But they normally live in the sea. They're…child-snatchers. They steal little kids who get too close to the water's edge and…and nobody really knows what happens after that."

"They do not appear interested in attacking us," Russia said with a nonchalant shrug. "We should continue on."

"I suppose you're right…"

They moved further, with Sweden moving to give Iceland a boost to the next ledge so he could carry the rope for the rest of them, but Finland stayed behind for moment, watching the Qallupilluk. His eyes were sharp from decades of training and he could spot an enemy from over a hundred meters with no scope, and something about these creatures – these child-snatchers, as Canada called them – bothered him.

The Qallupilluk hissed at him again and slipped back into their lair. He caught a brief glimpse of one's webbed hand before they vanished. It was clutching something bright blue.

Finland's heart stopped, his mind leaping to Sealand's very favorite blue hat, his trademark, the one he never went anywhere without. But that was impossible, Peter was far from the sea right now, and he'd called to check on him before they left, he'd spoken to him just yesterday!

He knew that he was being ridiculous, but his heart pounded with fear anyway.

A hand fell upon his shoulder and he jumped a foot. He spun around and found Sweden look at him in concern. "Yeh 'lr'ght?"

Finland shook himself. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. It's nothing."

And it was nothing, but that nothing haunted him the rest of the way up the mountain.

**( - )**

"I think he's dead."

America certainly felt dead. His head was pounding, his vision was little more than a mass of colors and lights, and he couldn't quite remember where he was or what he was doing here. Everything below his neck was either numb or screamed with pain, and he couldn't tell which one was worse.

Someone prodded his shoulder and fire raced straight to his brain. "I really think he's dead, Yu."

"Shush," said another voice, softer and higher – a woman. "Nations don't die that way."

"But I don't even think he's breathing."

America wasn't, but the moment he thought about it, his automatic nervous system kicked in. He gulped a lungful of cold air and jerked up, painfully yanking his still-bound arms. A young man with blue-tinted skin and stark white hair yanked his hand away with a yelp of surprise; his companion, an impossibly pale girl with long black hair and a soft white kimono, did not react at all.

"I told you," she said with a heavy Japanese accent.

The strange boy shook himself and stuck out a blue tongue. "Shut up."

America coughed, convulsing on the ground, and tried to stand, but his limbs wouldn't listen. He forced himself to relax, sagged against the floor and turned his head to look up at the two strangers. They seemed very young – younger than he looked, even. Their presence baffled him more than anything else he'd seen so far.

"Who?" he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. It hurt, but managed it. "Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter," said the girl softly.

Her friend snorted. "That's not nice Yuki."

"Shut up, Jack, before I do it for you."

America looked between them, baffled. How could anybody be so relaxed in the home of a monster? Weren't they prisoners here, too? Oh god, did that creep keep these kids the way he was keeping America…?

If either teen was aware of the odd looks he gave them, they did not acknowledge it. The girl, Yuki, reached for his shoulder and rolled him over to see his arms. America yelped in pain, but she didn't acknowledge that either. "Looks like the fractures have repaired themselves…"

"If that's what you want to call it," said Jack. He prodded America's arms between the coils of rope, and America yelped again. "Jiminy Christmas, they're all twisted up. I bet we could cut the ropes and he wouldn't even be able to move them."

"We're not going to try it."

"You're no fun."

"We're not supposed to untie him," Yuki retorted, turning America back over and dabbing his forehead with an icy cold cloth. "Our job is to patch him up, remember? Basic maintenance so that he's still in prime condition for the General."

At the mention of his captor, America tried to squirm away from their touch, but every muscle in his body knotted up and screamed in protest. He winced and bit his lip, forcing down a cry of pain.

Jack gave his forehead a reproachful slap, as though he were admonishing a dog. "Yo, jerkwad, don't do that. You'll just get more torn up and then the General'll have our hides. He likes his toys in good repair."

"Don't bother, Jack," Yuki said, wringing her cloth into a small bucket of water tinted red with blood. "These nations never listen to anything reasonable. Besides, we're not supposed to talk to the toys."

"We're not supposed to be seen by them, either."

"That's not in the orders. You just liked teasing Vanya."

America groaned, opened his eyes again and croaked, "Russia?"

The two glanced his way with expressions of disgust and Jack opened his mouth as though about to say something, but he was cut off as a door slammed shut somewhere down the hall. Yuki leapt up, snatching away the cool touch of the rag, and Jack sprung as though there were springs in his heels. America realized that they were leaving and tried to call after them – "Wait!" – but his croak was unheard as the two vanished with a burst of snow from each.

A second later, the double doors that lead to the room were flung wide and the General stormed in. Wind howled in his wake like tortured spirits and a snow drift tumbled over to bury his boots to the toes, but he didn't seem to notice. There was a snarl on his face and anger telegraphed with every twitch. He stormed across the room, seized America by his hair and snarled, "How _dare_ they?"

America yelped as his head was yanked painfully, but that was all the resistance he could give. Supported only by his hair and collar, the General dragged him to the bed and flung him onto the mattress, roaring violently. "Think they can steal from me?"

In the next instant, he was upon America, pinning him down and digging his nails into the flesh of America's neck. He leaned close, his breath leaving ice upon America's nose, and hissed, _"Never."_

America didn't know what he was talking about. But then, he didn't seem to know much of anything anymore.

_**TBC…**_

**Notes: **Qallupilluk (no I don't know how to pronounce it) are Inuit creatures who lurk in the water and snatch away children who stray too close. In other words, the story was created to keep kids from playing by themselves on dangerous ice ridges and near too-cold waters. It's not told why they snatch children – some people thing they eat them, and others think they're just lonely, but the children never come back.

The attendant/servant-type things in General Winter's house are Jack Frost and Yuki-Onna, respectively. Yuki-Onna, literally "Snow Women," are Japanese mountain spirits; the most common story I've heard involves a man who watches one freeze his sleeping companions to death and is spared by her on the restriction that he never tells anyone. He survives, goes home and marries a beautiful woman, keeping his promise for many years until he finally divulges the truth to his wife. As is common in Japanese stories, it turns out that his wife is the Yuki-Onna, who promptly abandons and/or kills him.

As far as I know, the only Jack Frost-centric narrative in existence is that claymation Christmas special. I just had to work him in there because he's such a rotten little imp. Also, RL is kicking my ass, so I apologize for being late with this. We're getting to the climatic final encounter, and I'm always clumsy with fight scenes, so we'll see how it turns out.


	12. Assault Begins on Winter's Home

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything involved here. I just think this space looks silly without something here.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Eleven: Assault Begins on Winter's Home**

America was not used to feeling helpless. He'd never been particularly weak, even as a small colony – the dangerous wilds of his homeland and careful instruction of his more kind-hearted forbearers had prevented that – and it had been centuries since he'd proven, without the shadow of a doubt, that he was capable of fighting his own good fights.

But now, with his body ravaged, his arms broken and everything below his waist all but dead of cold, the feebleness overwhelmed him. General Winter dragged his nails across America's cheeks and neck, drawing blood. His beard was rough against America's aching skin and the alcohol on his breath was so palpable America could almost see it.

"So warm," the General whispered, dipping into the same manic mantra as before while his tongue lapped at the dribbles of blood his nails drew. "So very warm…my pet…"

America grit his teeth. "You're deluded," he hissed. America belonged to no one.

The General's eyes rolled up to look at him like tiny bugs peering from amongst his ratty hair. He bared his teeth with a hiss like a rabid dog. Then, he latched onto the wounds in America's neck, used his teeth to tear them open further and filled the veins with a blast of icy air. America's blood froze instantly, splintering into a heavy snow-like mess all throughout his veins. America gave a strangled yell as his heart leapt in his chest, fighting against the blockage futilely.

General Winter licked his lips, savoring the last tastes of warm blood. He squeezed the now-frozen shoulder and found no softness, only ice. "Not eternal," he said softly. "Not forever, but long enough…you will wait for me."

America wanted to protest, but it was too cold. The ice bit into his body hardening the soft tissue until he might as well be made of stone. General Winter cupped his chin and squeezed until his jaw was forced open. Their eyes met and the General smiled. "You will wait, i_my_/i pet."

America's eyes blazed. He opened his throat to protest and the General lunged, melding their mouths together and forcing the super-cold air down his throat. For the second time, America froze. The General did not let up until the body beneath him lay lifeless and cold to the core. Once he was certain, he drew away, ruffled the frost-tinted golden and hair folded America's eyes closed.

He lay there for a long while, cradling America's lifeless form and basking in the last lingering traces of warmth. He would have liked to stay there forever, but there were more important things to attend to now. Finally, he gathered the lifeless Nation into his arms and bore him back to coffin at the foot of his bed. He closed the clear ice lid with reverence and made sure that all of its protective seals were in place.

Some part of his mind noticed that the blood had been cleaned from the lid, which was now as clear as the day it was made; but it was only a passing thought.

( - )

Denmark stopped, thumped the snow from his boots and glared at the palace of ice that still towered high over their heads. "Okay, this is just messed up."

His companions stopped and glanced between him and the castle, bewildered. The Dane was both mildly amused and frustrated that nobody seemed to get it. "Guys, think about it. How long have we been walking?"

Iceland checked his watch. "Two hours or so."

"Then how come the damn building is no closer than when we started?"

Canada jerked his head up. It was true. Though there was a definite distance between themselves and the base of the mountain, the castle at the top still looked as far away as ever. Perhaps further. The only thing that seemed to have changed was the number of trees that surrounded them and the presence of a large, bored-looking caribou lurking in this distance. "No, but…but how?"

"Someone is playing games with us, da?" said Russia, sipping idly at a small glass bottle.

That was when they first heard the giggling. It echoed from above, bouncing between the trees and ice walls in the same octave as a squeaking door joint. Finland, taking the lead with his sharp eyes, signaled for them to stop, and they did. The laughter only grew louder.

Already on high alert, Denmark twisted around and brandished his axe threateningly. "What the hell is that?" he demanded. "Those Que-lip things?"

Canada shook his head. "Qallupilluk aren't that noisy, and I've never even heard of them laughing…"

Behind him, a bush rustled and its brittle branches snapped under a foreign hand. Canada's reflexes startled him back from the plant, but it was Finland who yanked him away with a protective growl. The smallest nation among them had his sniper's rifle in hand within seconds, the sight trained on the now-lifeless bush.

"T'no," Sweden said with a concerned tone. A stone the size of a softball rolled down the cliff side and thumped to a stop against his boot.

Finland whirled on the spot, aimed at the fleeting shadow among the icy ridge and fired. With his silencer in place, the gunshot was reduced to a loud and painful i_pop_/i that echoed across the face of the mountain. The laughter was abruptly silenced.

Instinctively, Canada held Kumajiro close as he back away, pressing closer to Russia than to Finland. "Tino."

"They're still here," Finland insisted, his voice slipping into a low sniper's hiss.

Iceland twisted up his face in confusion. "Who?"

An ear-splitting shriek gave him his answer as a creature leapt at them from the contours of the ice. It was disgusting, scrawny, emancipated creature with ice-blue skin and blank white eyes, barefoot and stripped to the waist despite the cold. Long, grease-tangled hair hung in its face and foot-long nails arched from its fingers. There was a dark red-and-black wound staining its shoulder – Finland's bullet.

It lunged at the smallest Nordic nation, raking the air with its huge claws, but Finland dodged, rolling to the side. The creature, who moved with all the pent-up energy and sudden jerks of a squirrel on a sugar high, leapt into the air and onto the next-nearest target, Sweden. The tall nation was thrown back as the creature wrapped one too-long arm around his shoulders and toppled him backwards, into a snow bank.

"Berwald!" Norway shouted.

Sweden grunted, rolled onto his shoulders and kicked his attacker with both legs, sending the blue beast flying. Sweden lumbered to his knees and yanked a hunting knife from his belt. "Caref'l. 'E's strong."

"You mean them," Iceland said, pointing with the two handguns he clutched. Two dozen of the blue-skinned beasts were scurring down the icy face of the mountain like spiders, heading their way. The rocks echoed with their laughter and wind rustled the trees as though in expectation – the only thing that did not seemed disturbed by the creatures' approach was the caribou, who continued to graze.

Finland swore viciously under his breath, ducked behind a large rock and fired off another shot into the mob of creatures. It ricocheted off the ice and struck one in the leg, but they kept coming. "What are these things?"

"I don't know them," Norway said, the pages of his book flipping rapidly on their own, freeing his hand to draw invisible sigils in the air. "Canada, are they some of yours?"

"They're Mahaha," Canada said, the syllables running together.

"They got a weakness?"

"Well, they're stupid."

"That's a start." Norway clenched his sister, sealing off the last of the mid-air sigils. A burst of green-white light, like a mini aurora, brust from the air before his knuckles and arced towards the ground. It struck the ice ahead of them and cracked it as easily as the summer sun, splitting beneath a Mahaha's feet and sending it tumbling to its doom. The other creatures giggled all the louder and leapt the crevice with ease.

Russia finished off all but the last inch of his bottle and drew a lighter wrapped in cloth from his coat pocket. Finland reloaded his rifle and fired another shot, this one catching a Mahaha in the chest. Still they came. Denmark and Sweden formed a barrier at the head of the group, with Iceland just behind. Russia stuffed the rag in the bottle, lit it and lobbed the burning concoction over their heads.

The glass shattered on impact, spilling fire over the ice. Two Mahaha were caught in the splash zone and fell to the ground, writhing as they burned. Denmark let out a battle cry and charged into the fray, swiping his axe at the first one brave or stupid enough to meet him head-on. Said Mahaha caught his weapon by the head, laughing as it held the blade away from its body against all of the nation's strength.

"Damn you!" Denmark swore.

Another Mahaha leapt over the first, long nails reaching for Denmark's eyes, but caught two of Iceland's bullets in its forehead instead and went spinning away. Denmark kicked the one he was wrestling with in the stomach and swept around to knock it away too. "Thanks for the save!"

"Don't thank me yet," Iceland said, and jumped back from a Mahaha that got too close, only for the creature to be swept away by Sweden.

Finland fired off another round into the crowd, unloaded the spent cartridges and shot Canada a glance. "Matthew, go."

Canada was startled. There was something in Finland's eyes, a fierce, almost savage kind of protectiveness normally found in the eyes of a mother bear just before she ripped open the stomach of whatever was threatening her cubs. The shock of seeing that in Finland of all people left Canada's brain running slow. "Go?"

"There!" Finland pointed to the castle. "We'll keep these things distracted here while you break through. Take Russia and get America out of there as quickly as you can."

Russia clicked his tongue, unfazed by the battle that raged around them. "It will do us no good as long as we are unable to get close, caught in this mirage as we are."

"Mirage…" Something clicked in Canada's mind. He broke Finland's strange gaze and once again spied the oddly placated caribou lurking on the edge of their fight. "That's it!"

He took off running, but not for the castle. The caribou looked up, startled by his sudden approach and giving Canada a good look at its blood-red orbs.

"Kumajiro!" Canada called, remembering his companion's name in this critical moment and launching the polar bear at the other beast. In mid-flight, Kumajirou finally woke up from his nap and doubled, tripled, _quadrupled_ in size until he was twice the size of an average polar bear adult. The caribou was pinned in seconds and let out a very un-caribou like scream.

Canada ran up in the wake of his companion, half-imagining a spear in his empty hand, and glared at the "caribou" over his glasses. "Ijiraat…anigutijuq."

The caribou looked at him with bright red eyes that bore an almost human fear, then disappeared. It was replaced by medium-sized snow bunny with the same big red eyes, which scampered off and disappeared into the snow. Canada looked to the castle and watched the mirage fade away, revealing the truth – they'd been around the mountain in a circle, not up it. Now, the path was clear.

With their cover blown, the Mahaha increased their attack, and a wave of them were heading in his direction. "Canada!" Finland shouted in warning, but the North American nation was ahead of him.

Canada leapt onto Kumajiro's back as though the bear were a horse and together, the barreled through the Mahaha like a bowling ball through pins. They doubled back around the rear of the group and Russia swung up behind Canada in mid-gallop.

Canada hesitated, but only for a moment. "Are you guys sure about this?"

"Of course we're sure!" Finland insisted as Norway launched another spell. "Now go!"

They didn't need to be told twice. Kumajiro leapt forward, breaking through the enemy ranks with ease and charging up the side of the mountain. Norway's spell landed just behind them, splitting open the earth and cutting off the smattering of Mahaha who tried to give chase.

As they charged up the sheer face of the mountain, Canada felt something tugging at his heart, something familiar, and knew that they were getting close. "_Just hang on Al,"_ he thought, not even knowing if his brother could hear. _"We'll be there any second…"_

_**TBC…**_

(Ugh. I hate my action scenes. They never come out sounding well. Which, incidentally, is also why this chapter took so damn long. I apologize for this.

Mahaha are small, maniacal demons who stalk the arctic regions. They are very strong, apparently completely resistant to the cold and take delight in – wait for it – tickling people to death. Yes. They tickle people to death and leave them in the snow with hideous grins frozen upon their faces. However, they are also incredibly stupid – most stories end with the Mahaha being tricked into leaning over a water hole so it can be pushed in and swept away by the currents.

"_Ijiraat…anigutijuq." _- "Ijiraat…Leave."

The Ijiraat are land spirits and shape-shifters. They can transform into any animal, but their eyes remain red. They are surrounded by mirages – it's said that when an island or mountain on the horizon looks bigger or closer than it actually is, an Ijiraat may be nearby. They also seem to effect the memories of the people they meet, as people who have met with the Ijiraat quickly forget the details of what they have experienced.

Also, Kumajiro's growing thing? That goes into the head canon that he's something like Canada's shamanistic familiar. And besides, everybody has their own way of kicking ass in this fight, and Kuma is Canada's. ^_^)


	13. Reclaiming America

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything involved here. I just think this space looks silly without something here.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Twelve: Reclaiming America**

Kumajiro stormed up the mountainside in record time, his great paws pounding like hunting drums against the ice and rock. Some Mahaha from the cracks tried to get in their way, but he scattered them as though they were rag dolls, snapping their thin bones with a single swipe and clearing their path to the gates of the palace.

Canada dug his hands into the thick fur, partially to increase his grip and partially to reaffirm the familiar warmth of his presence. Russia leaned forward from behind, closing in claustrophobically, and muttered in his ear, "I believe we planned to enter with stealth."

"It's a little late for that," said Canada, and then the carved blue doors were rising before them from the snow. He hunched down behind Kumajiro's head and made his grip as tight as possible. "Hang on, we're going to hit it hard."

Russia grunted in his ear, but did not pull away. Instead, he leaned ever closer, pinning Canada against Kumajiro's back as the polar bear let out a roar. He charged forward, doubling his speed in the last few feet, and flung all his new-found weight at the door in a single mighty blow.

With a thunderous crash, the huge double doors were thrown wide and they burst into the tremendous front hall of Winter's palace. It was as huge as a cathedral, with towering buttresses supporting a ceiling so high it seemed to stretch into the clouds. Though massive, this hall was nearly empty, and Kumajiro slid all the way across its width on a floor of slick, solid polished marble. His haunches thumped against the opposite wall and his passengers tumbled to the floor. Behind them, the huge doors snapped closed once more, rattling the palace to its foundations.

Canada pulled himself from the floor and immediately moved to scoop up Kumajiro once more. The polar bear had returned to his more manageable cub-like size and slumped, falling asleep now that his momentary burst of energy had been expended.

"All right, we're in," he said, packing Kumajiro safely away in his bag. "Where do we go from here?"

Russia stood slowly, glancing around the vast hall. He grunted. "We are not alone."

As though started by his words, something clattered to the floor somewhere behind Canada's ear. Canada jumped and twisted around, but Russia moved faster, darting past him with unusual speed for his size and darting to the far side. His hand shot into a shadowed nook, and a startled yelp echoed from within.

"Got you," Russia said, dragging a young man with blue-tinted skin and stark white hair from the shadows. With a swipe of his arm, he tossed the boy to the floor. "Frost."

The boy yelped when he hit the floor and scuttled back like a crab. He smiled at Russia, but it was forced through the fear and not at all convincing. "V-Vanya! Long time no see…"

"You do not have permission to address me in such a way, little imp," said Russia in the cold tone that oft rendered less powerful nations shaking in their boots.

Canada swallowed and stepped forward, stuck somewhere between confusion and curiosity. "Ivan…Russia, you know this kid?"

"We have met once before, when I was very young," Russia said, popping his knuckles. The boy made a strange squeak and back away, still glued to the floor. "He is Jack Frost, a lacky of the General. He will take us to America."

"Hold!"

A gust of cold air blasted Canada from behind, shards of ice scraping the skin of his face and neck. Heavy with snow, it swept along the floor in a mini tornado and suddenly reformed into a pale teenage girl in a white kimono, who crouched beside Jack Frost, her arms wrapped around him protectively.

"Don't you hurt him, Vanya," she snapped, bristling like a cat. "You have no right."

Russia recoiled in surprise, his fists falling open harmlessly. "Snegurochka?"

"Yuki," the girl corrected. "Yuki-Onna."

"Not in my language," Russia said, as though addressing an angel. "It has been a long time."

Canada craned around to search the taller nation's eyes and was startled to find a tenderness there, one that he recognized, but could not place. Russia met his gaze for a split moment before returning it to Yuki-Onna. He spoke to her much more kindly than to Jack, letting himself slip into a familiar, rural Russian accent. "We are here for America. Please, take us to him."

Yuki-Onna bit her lip and glanced around uncertainly. Jack grabbed er arm. "Don't even think about it, Yuki."

"Snegurochka." Russia implored.

"I'm sorry," said Yuki-Onna, and to her credit, she did seem sorry even as she and Jack both drew away from the nations. "We cannot turn on the General."

"But why?"

"He is our ruler," she said. "And a good leader."

"He's no leader, he's a spoiled brat."

All three of them spun around at Canada's sudden interjection. The young nation scowled at them, slinging his bag over his shoulder with both hands. "He treats everyone like toys and throws a tantrum when he doesn't get his way. He's always been like that, because no one's ever told him no. You can't deny that."

They couldn't. Russia gaze returned to Yuki-Onna. "Please."

Yuki-Onna closed her eyes. "Fine."

"You're going to be in so much trouble!" Jack shouted, leaping to his feet and darting for the hall. "You're gonna be in trouble, you're gonna be in trouble, just you wait Yuki, you're gonna be in trouble!"

Yuki-Onna twisted after him, flinging her arm out. A blast of ice spewed from her sleeve across the floor, creating a slide. Jack leapt before his feet could freeze and landed on the path, balanced on his toes like skates. He darted away from them at high speed, leaving a snowy trail in his path, only to find that Russia was waiting at the end of the slide to catch him by the shoulders. A second later, Yuki-Onna blew in behind him and froze Jack Frost with a single blast.

By the time that Canada caught up, Jack was frozen solid from head to toe, but his fingers were already starting to twitch. Yuki-Onna looked between them quickly. "That won't hold him forever, but I'll stall him as long as I can."

"Where is America?" Russia asked her again.

"The General's quarters. You remember where?"

"I could not forget." Russia turned on the balls of his feet, pausing only a moment to take Canada by the elbow. "Come, and stay close."

"Be careful," Yuki-Onna called after them, before she disappeared from sight.

After three sharp left turns and a fourth to the right, Canada realized why Russia had warned him against wandering – all of these halls, with their icy blue and white stone and ancient carvings from civilizations long dead or unknown to men, looked the same. It made his head spin to think how long someone would have to wander this place to even begin to tell them apart. And Russia was only a child…

Suddenly, he was aware of a sound, one beside the roar of winter winds that filled these halls – it was an animal sound, a whining, and it was coming from his backpack. He realized that it was Kumajiro, wiggling against his back in warning. Canada dug in his feet, pulled back and grabbed Russia's coat. "Something's coming."

Russia stopped and seemed to realize the truth in his words. He back-tracked, swept Canada straight off his feet for a few brief seconds, and drove them both into a niche behind the statue of a beheaded solider. They froze there, still as death, and Canda's breath caught in his throat. For a second, there was silence.

Then, General Winter appeared.

He blew through the hall like snow-laden hurricane. Every footstep echoed through the hall like thunder, rattling the floor beneath their feet. He blasted past the headless solider statue without a second glance – then stopped. He moved back a few steps, right where they could see him, and gazed around the hall slowly.

Canada's held breath began to burn in his lungs. He pressed against the wall as far as he could without squishing Kumajiro in his bag. Russia extended an arm across his chest, blocking him into even deeper shadows than the nook created on its own.

General Winter seemed to look straight through them, and time stopped. Then the General snapped his head around and continued on his way as though nothing had happened, disappearing around the corner.

It wasn't until he had disappeared around the corner that Canada allowed himself to release his held air. Russia relaxed as well and slipped back into the hall. "Come. We are almost there."

He sounded anxious. Canada wondered if being so close to the General in this place had startled him. Another part of his mind wondered how Winter had missed them – they'd been right there, not six feet away, and yet there wasn't a glimmer in his eye. In the back of his mind, something – a voice that sounded like Denmark – began to whisper doubts about Russia's reliability.

But he did not have long to dwell on these potentially damning thoughts. Russia had stopped beside a wide door and dragged it open to reveal a spacious room that, despite its immense size, could only be a bedchamber. The furniture was sparse, only a dresser and bed, both carved from a combination of stone and long-dead wood. A large window, the first he had seen since entering the palace, took up most of the far wall, navy curtains half-closed across its face. The bed itself was huge, large enough for three giants to sleep comfortably side-by-side and still have room to roll over; and at its foot sat a glistening structure of ice and rock, unmistakably a coffin.

Canada raced forward, praying that his instincts were not true, but they were proven the instant he grew close enough to see through the coffin's clear ice lid.

"America!" he gasped, sliding into it on extra momentum. It was a horrible sight. He'd never seen America so still, not after his White House had burned and the fire eating at his very bones had finally been extinguished. With grasping hands, he found the latch that freed the lid and hauled it open, confirming his fears. America's clothes were torn and stained with fresh blood, there was a new scar marring his forehead and his lips were blue. Canada hesitated, pulled his gloves from his hands and reached to feel his brother's hair, to convince himself that its new silver tips were only ice. It was not – the hair was the only part of America that was still soft and unfrozen.

Canada reached for his brother, cupping his cheeks in his hands. There was no warmth, no pulse.

"America," he begged. "America, wake up, please."

Russia slid up beside him, as swift and silent as before. He reached over Canada's shoulders and pressed an un-gloved hand to America's face. His broad palm covered America's entire forehead, and then his cheek as it trailed down the length of his neck. Then, it moved down America's body, and finally came to a rest in the center of his chest, directly above his heart.

"Ice," Russia reported gravely. "He has been frozen, inside and out."

Canada swallowed his fear, though it nearly choked him to do so. "We have to get him out of here."

"Not like this. He is too fragile, we will break him."

"Then what the hell are we supposed to do?"

Grasping his shoulders roughly, Russia dragged Canada away from the coffin's edge. Canada struggled – every instinct in his body screamed not to leave his helpless brother's side. If Russia noticed his flailing, he made no move to acknowledge it, shifting him away enough that he could take the Canadian's place near America's head. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose and grasped Canada's hand by the wrist.

Russia pressed Canada's palm against his own broad chest, maneuvering it beneath the scarf and coat to reach the bottom layer of clothing, as close to skin-to-skin contact as he seemed willing to sacrifice now. "You feel?"

Canada stopped flailing and focused on his hand. He did feel something there, something he hadn't expected to feel, not here, and not with this man – warmth.

"You and I reach farther south than any other here," said Russia with conviction, his words coming slow as though all his focus was now devoted to cultivating the warmth within him. "We can bring that here, and we can do this."

He released Canada and turned instead to America, tilting back his head until his mouth fell open. Then Russia swooped in like a raptor after its prey, held America's nose closed with his hand and sealed his lips over the open mouth.

As he exhaled, a crack echoed from America's frozen chest. It rose and fell – not far at all, only the barest twitch, but it was enough. It was movement.

Russia remained in the familiar pose of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until he had inhaled another lungful of air straight from America's body. He straightened and released the air, snow crystals forming instantly on his breath. He looked to Canada. "Your turn."

Canada swallowed, but knew he didn't have the time to hesitate. He closed his eyes and thought of his south. The cities. The summers. The lakes. The border. He missed meeting the border, and he wanted to feel his brother's warmth that way once more.

He felt a heat rise within him, tickling his lungs and numbing the skin on the back of his throat. He opened his eyes and slipped into Russia's place, releasing the warm air into America's frozen body in one strong gust. This time, America's chest rose and fell as though he were taking a breath of his own and merely sleeping. It was a very, very good start.

They kept this up for three turns, switching places back and forth to warm America from the inside out. Just as Canada was beginning to struggle for his border's last bits of summer heat, he felt something new below the hand that rested on America's chest – a heartbeat.

A second later, America breathed on his own.

He sucked in a gulp of air so sudden and sharp that Canada was half-afraid he'd break. His eyes flew open and he burst awake, jerking straight up with a gasp and a cry of pain. "Aah! Wha, what…?"

"Calm down," Canada soothed, holding his brother in place by the shoulders. "It's okay, Al. We've got you."

"Mattie?" America's eyes widened, then a thankful grin slid across his face. "Matt. I shoulda known…you'd be here eventually."

He lifted his head and blinked in confusion. Canada glanced over his shoulder. Russia was hovering there, wearing an expression of concern, as though he were uncertain whether to approach. America turned his head to one side, but when he spoke his voice was not unkind. "What are you doing here?"

"I came looking for you," said Russia softly.

America snorted, shifting enough that Canada could slip his arm beneath him and lift him into a sitting position. "So you have been following me."

Canada's blood ran cold. "He's been what?"

Russia seemed equally surprised. "I…"

"Don't try to deny it," America said, coughing against the roughness of his raw throat. "My neighbors have seen you lurking around my land in Alaska for the last two months. That's why I was up there when the ice king showed up. What're you trying to do, get info for an invasion?"

"It isn't like that!" Russia insisted, his voice much louder than it should have been. His cheeks colored when he realized what he'd done, a shade that darkened as both twins' eyes became focused on him. He broke the gaze, turning away to look into the far corner of the room. "I…It's silly, really. I was only hoping for a glimpse..."

"Of what?" Canada asked, wavering between curiosity and distrust.

Russia looked past him, to America. It was the same way the he had looked at Yuki-Onna.

America allowed himself a tired chuckle. "You big lug. Next time, just call."

A bullet struck the thick ice window suddenly, leaving a dent as it ricocheted away into the snow. Canada jumped a foot, spared the crack a glance and turned back to his brother. "We don't have time for this. Finland and the others can't those things off forever. Al, sit up, we gotta cut you loose…"

"Don't!" America yelped, twisting at the waist to pull his arms away from Canada. He winced in pain and closed his eyes, panting to catch his breath. "Don't cut the ropes. My arms…he broke my arms, and they've healed and…god, it hurts."

Canada winced in sympathy – that explained why his elbows had been aching.

Russia stepped forward and hauled America out of the coffin like a child's doll. "Can you stand?" he asked.

"Sure."

He set America on his feet. America took one step, stumbled and fell. Russia side-stepped and caught him before he hit the ground. America winced as his bound arms were jostled and gave a hesitant shrug. "Oh. I guess not."

"Such as it is, then," Russia said. He moved to hoist America over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, but that was as far as he got before the bedroom door slammed open.

A howling roar echoed through the room, accompanying an icy wind that announced General Winter's return. He stood in the doorway, eyes blazing like fire beetles from within the thick cover of his beard. "Vanya," he hissed. "After all this time, you dare to steal from me?"

"In a word," said Russia, "yes."

And they ran.

_**TBC…**_

Snegurochka - the "Snow Maiden" of Russian mythology, sometimes depicted as the granddaughter of Ded Moroz, the Russian Father Christmas. It's said that she longed for human companionship, but was unable to love because the warmth in her heart would cause her to melt. I figured she and Yuki-Onna were a good parallel, especially if little Russia was to catch glimpses of her during his childhood.


	14. Escape

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything involved here. I just think this space looks silly without something here.

**White Winter**

**Chapter Thirteen: Escape**

If there was one universal truth that the Nordics knew, it was this: An angry Finland was a scary Finland.

None of them knew what had sparked his ire this time, but it must have been something significant – Finland was normally so even-tempered, only striking out when his lands, his people or those few that he cared for were in some sort of danger. Now he leapt from cover to cover, advancing up the hill with the speed of a determined mouse, pausing only to reload his gun and fire off the string of precise shots that made his sniper skills legendary.

Despite their best efforts – and they'd been giving it their god-honest best for the last hour or so – the steady flow of Mahaha hadn't been stemmed. If anything, the situation had gotten worse, with a pair of grumpy old tree spirits hurling ice balls to the general's aid and at least two avalanches from the giants further up the hill threatening to bury them all without even startling their opponents.

Denmark finished taking his act to one of the two spindly, nearly-dead old trees and whirled around, taking an ice ball to the face from his victim's partner. "YEOWCH!" he yelped, dropping his axe and clutching his now-bleeding nose. "Aaargh, crappity-crap-crap! That fucking _hurt!_ How many of these goddamn jackasses do we have to cut down?"

A high-pitched laugh bounced through the air as a Mahaha leapt over the tree's remains to slash at Denmark with its claws. Startled, Denmark reared back, scrambled for his axe and missed. Twin gunshots echoed through the air and the Mahaha spun into the snow, sporting two new wounds on his chest.

Iceland flipped his pistols around, dropped the empty cartridges and scampered to Denmark's side. "We don't have a choice," he said, helping the older nation up by one arm. "They keep coming, and we have to keep buying time…"

"…for Canada, yeah, yeah, I know," Denmark grunted, waving the white-haired boy off as he staggered to his feet. His eyes wandered the battlefield a moment before focusing his glare on the icy palace far above, where their polar bear riding companions had vanished almost an hour before. "I still say it was a crap idea to send him in there with Russia."

"Don't I know it," Iceland muttered under his breath.

"Hey, Nor!" Denmark shouted back to where the magically-inclined nation stood on an outcrop of rock, commanding a brigade of magical beings against the Mahaha's attacks. "Can't you magic us up there or something?"

Norway sent him a glare, leaping over a lunging attacker, who slammed face-first into the ice rocky beneath him. The nation landed with a somersault, curling around his book to protect it from the scattering snow, and rolled back to his feet. "If I break my focus for something like that, these things will overrun us. We have to fight our way through."

Denmark growled, spat into the snow and hoisted his axe from the ground, ready as always to dive back into the fray. "I swear, if that bastard hurts one hair on the kid's head…"

And then, as if to answer his words, Canada's scream echoed from the palace.

The Nordics jerked their heads up just in time to see a wide windowpane on the third story shatter with the force of the bodies that were thrown through it. One was clearly Russia, made apparent by his long tan coat that was curled around a prone figure that they could not see; the other was Canada, clutching his bag to protect the polar bear still sleeping inside.

Sweden dropped his weapon and backed up, judging the arc and speed of the fall. At the last moment, he leapt like a basketball player and caught Canada firmly in his arms, twisting to land on his back and cradle the younger nation against his chest. They slid across the ice into a soft snow bank. Russia landed similarly a few meters away.

"Berwald!" Finland called, slinging his rifle over his back and leaping after the fallen Swede. "Matthew! Are you alright?"

Sweden grunted his affirmation, using his elbows to push himself out of the snow. Canada rolled out of his grip with a quiet thanks, ducked under Finland's worried hands and darted for where Russia had landed. "America?"

"'M here," the form in Russia's arms said, though the sound was muffled and weak. Russia uncurled from his protective hunch to reveal America, his arms bound and his hair paler than the Nordics recalled. He seemed to be in pain, but it was diminished somewhat by the surprisingly gentle way that Russia held him.

Finland suppressed a little gasp of concern and knelt to check America's condition. "Oh my," he said, looking to Canada. "What on earth happened?"

"We don't have time," Russia grunted, pushing himself up.

"He's right," Canada said, breathless. There was raw panic in his violet eyes. "Tino, we have to go now, before –"

A howling burst of wind from the palace itself cut him off in mid-sentence. Shards of ice ripped at their faces and the swirling air sapped all the sound from their surroundings. The numerous Mahaha skittered to a stop, shrieked in a hundred voices and scattered away, their claws scraping for holds in the ice and leaving long gashes in their wake.

A huge white figure wrapped in fur and royal blue burst through the same window three stories above, scattering glass and ice in his wake. He plummeted like a bolder and landed like a meteor, leaving a deep in the mountainside. The shock wave blew the five gathered nations several meters back down the hill – Sweden caught a foothold at the last moment and rolled into a crouch, forming a barrier with Russia to keep their smaller-statured companions from flying too far.

For a moment, the mountain was consumed by a flurry of snow and ice, with the crater at the heart of the storm. Then it cleared, revealing the dark and towering figure that rose from the destruction: General Winter.

His black eyes were narrowed, harsh and dangerous amongst the wild hair the wreathed his face. His blue, cracked lips were twisted into a snarl; and every step he took rumbled the ground with mini-earthquakes, splintering the ice in his wake. Ice bust from his body with every breath, and his huge form trembled with rage.

"You…" he growled, closing the gap between them.

Finland swung his rifle from his back. In the same motion, he snapped a magazine into place and dropped to one knee to take aim. "Stay back!"

The General snorted, the condensation pouring from him like steam from a kettle. "You've taken what's mine."

Crouched defensively between the now-standing Russia and Sweden, Canada wrapped his arms around his wounded brother like a bear defending its cub. America grit his teeth, cursing the General's insanity and his own weakened state under his breath.

"General Winter!" Norway shouted, leaping through the path left by the retreating Mahaha and sliding between the other nations and the General. He had his magical book open, which was no small feat; during the battle it had swollen to the size of a Gutenberg Bible, yet he still held it as easily as though it were a mass-market paperback. "You don't have any claim to America, and in involving him you are operating outside of the established protocols."

As if to reinforce his words, Iceland slid into place to Norway's right, cocking both his pistols with his sights trained on General Winter's forehead. Denmark scuttled into the left, his stance strong, low and ready to charge, though his hands trembled on the handle of his axe.

The General stopped. He looked at each of the three interrupting nations in turn, finally settling on Norway with a sneer.

Norway held his ground, one hand trailing down the inscriptions of his book. "Even you must be bound by the Old Laws," he said, enunciating each word with the power and confidence of a magic spell. "And America is not a part of our deal."

America lifted his head at that, wearing a scowl. "What deal?" he asked.

Canada held him tighter. America's eyes swiveled to his brother's face. "Mattie, what's this 'deal'?"

Canada bit his lip and refused to respond. America twisted, his eyes snapping from Canada to Sweden and up to Russia, who now move forward a single step, giving him an excuse not to look at the North American twins. "Ivan, what are they talking about? Tell me!"

Russia's shoulders heaved in a small sigh. He turned back and met America's gaze. His violet eyes held a dark shadow, like sunset on the eve of a deadly storm. A realization struck America, and his eyes widened.

The General spoke. "I care not for those laws. In this place, I _am_ the law."

That was the only warning they got before the wind came again. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed that the wind rose from behind the General, but the nations knew better. It came from him, from his lungs, his being, his bitter and icy heart.

Norway struck his magical book, sending it up in the air and flipping it in his grip so that the parchment pages – inscribed with an ancient magic circle – faced the general. He shouted a command that the other could not understand, and suddenly there was a second current of wind, this one bursting from the book and shooting through the General's fury like an arrow through water.

It struck the General head-on. He slid back about a foot, his boots scraping against the ice and earth. Then he lifted his huge hands, palms facing outward, and caught Norway's warm attack as though it were an opponent in a wrestling match. He twisted the stream away from him as easily as though it were a pipe cleaner and, within seconds, it was consumed by his own icy gale.

Norway's eyes widened in horror. In the next second, Denmark charged with a roar, leaping at the General while his hands were full with Norway's magic. He got in a solid blow to the giant's shoulder, but the blade didn't even nick the skin; it glanced off as though striking an anvil. Denmark had just long enough to realize this before Winter grabbed his axe just beyond its head and used it to yank the attacking nation off of his feet. With only one arm, he twirled Denmark twice like a mace and then flung him, axe and all, over the heads of his companions.

"Denmark!" Norway shouted, twisting after him.

Iceland slid into a defensive position and began firing everything he had directly at the General's face. He emptied both clips, but still the General kept coming, stomping across the ice with long, determined thumps that rattled the mountain like miniature explosions. Out of ammo, Iceland scrambled back to the group, where Norway had now dragged the rattled Denmark. "Okay," the island nation said breathlessly. "We need another plan."

"Got any ideas?" Denmark asked with a pained groan.

"I was hoping you had something."

Finland grit his teeth, yanked the safety from his rifle and fired off a deadly armor-piercing round. It struck the General square between the eyes, knocking back his head. The general stopped and, for a second, it seemed to have worked. Then his head settled back into its proper position and the bullet fell to the ground.

"That hurt," he said.

"_Perkele_," Finland swore.

"He can't do this," Norway insisted. "He can't. It's against the rules."

"We're fucked," said Iceland, without either exaggeration or irony.

The General closed in on them, his storm growing fiercer and more violent with every step. The nations instinctively pressed together into a cohesive, protective group. Sweden gripped Finland's shoulder. "R'n," he said.

"Never," Finland insisted. "Not without everyone."

America shifted, forcing himself to sit up despite his bound and broken arms. He glared at General Winter as though he'd never hated anything or anyone quite as much as he hated that creature. "Just let him have me."

The blood drained straight out of Canada's face. "No. Al, no."

Russia jerked his head around just enough to fix America with a glare that was, at the same time, terrifying and terrified. "Not another word. Don't even think it."

America grit his teeth and cursed his own helplessness, but anything he might have tried to respond with was lost in the wind. The General was upon them, and he seemed to swell with fury. A burst of his anger covered the nations with snow and ice, the temperature spiraling down into negative degrees that the Earth had never known.

Denmark's axe head finally sank to the ground as his arms gav**e** way. He swore and dragged Norway and Iceland closer, as if being any deeper into the heart of the group would spare them from Winter's wrath. Sweden jerked Finland to him, wrapping around the smaller nation to take the brunt of the attack. Russia lurched to cover the twins, hissing as the cold bit into his back even through his coat.

Canada closed his eyes, clutching both America and Russia's arm, and thought desperately of home. Light. Warmth. Spring.

A crack echoed over the roar of the wind.

And then everything stopped.

The huddle of nations remained pressed together for a lingering while thereafter, not knowing what had happened. When they began to move, Canada caught sight of their saving grace: an arrow, lodge deep between the second and third knuckle of the hand that General Winter had been reaching for them with. It was made of birch wood and, even more surprising, it was still alive; where there should have been feathers instead bore small branches of brilliantly green leaves and white flowers, growing and blossoming before their eyes as the roots wrapped around the General's hand.

Everyone looked to Norway. He seemed as surprised as everyone else. The General stared at his own hand in numb surprise.

From behind the nations came a warm woman's voice. "Brother, what do you think you're doing?"

The nations turned as one. Like the General, this woman towered over them; her bow alone was as taller than either Sweden or Russia. Her skin was the color of russet earth, her eyes almond-shaped and dark, her hair ebon black and bound simply at the base of her neck. She wore animals skins, dyed a brilliant sky blue, and flowers, which seemed to grow throughout her entire body. The air around her smelled like fresh-picked corn.

With her stood two more towering figures, a man and a woman. He was dressed in rich greens, with very dark skin and oddly pale hair. He radiated heat to an almost unbearable extent; the ice around them was even beginning to melt in his wake. With his thick beard and warm blue eyes, he was practically a corrupted mirror for the General himself. The woman was dusky-skinned and resembled India in her manner and dress; she was garbed in robes of deep oranges and yellows, and smelled like pumpkins and burning leaves.

General Winter scowled at them all, especially at the woman with the bow, and yanked the living arrow from his hand. "None of your business!" he snapped.

"You've broken the Old Laws," said the woman in blue, lowering her bow. "That makes it our business."

America butted his head against Canada's shoulder like a cat trying to get attention. "Matt," he whispered," where do I know her from?"

Canada shook his head. "I'm not sure…but I know what you mean…"

If the towering beings heard their words, they made no effort to acknowledge it. Space closed between them, though none of them moved, and the group of nations were slid out of their way without any effort of their own. It was as though they were simply removed to the outskirts of the area where these four beings – who could not be called human, not even in the way that a nation was technically human – existed.

"Our temperamental brother has been acting quite unreasonable as of late," said the woman in orange, sounding particularly distraught. "Disrupting the natural order of our domain so much, and for what? Really, it's just too much."

"We always knew he had a tendency to run away with his desires," said the dark-skinned man in green, rubbing his bearded chin. "That's why the Northern Arrangement was made in the first place. I never imagined he'd take it this far. We're lucky it was brought to our attention."

Norway clutched his book against his chest and heaved a heavy, relieved sigh. Denmark, once more grinning from ear to ear, clapped him on the back so hard that he nearly fell over. Iceland glanced back at Finland and Sweden. "Any idea what they're talking about?"

Finland shook his head. Russia shushed them, but they had already drawn the attention of the woman in blue. She turned to them slightly and her features softened into a smile. "It's all right," she said. "We'll sort this out in our own way."

"No," snapped the General. "This is my realm, my way! Mine!"

"Perhaps," said the man in green, tracing a circle in the air with his finger. It produced a ring of heat that distorted the air and floated to the gathered nations, spreading like smoke ring blown from the end of a pipe. "But they are not; none of them ever were. They belong to the world."

A flicker of something that might have been realization passed across Russia's face. Canada saw it and smiled to himself. He wondered if anyone else had noticed.

The ring of heat reached their group and engulfed them. The nations allowed themselves a collective sigh in thanks for the warmth, reveling in it to the point that they almost didn't notice how they now sunk into the ring of water created from the melting ice. It was growing very deep.

General Winter shouted something in protest, but his fellows held him back. The nations' instincts shouted to swim, but the sudden change in temperature left their bodies scrambling to catch up, and there was a force drawing them deeper into the pool. Their last glimpse was of the woman in blue waving to them with a kind farewell and the promise of a safe journey home.

When they woke again, they found themselves lying together in an open, grassy field, staring up at a crystal clear Alaskan sky as the sun rose over the mountains.

**Slight notes:** The personification of Spring (woman in blue) is based off of Blue Corn Maiden from Hopi mythology, who represented spring by returning to the people from the home of Winter. That's why Canada and America kinda recognize her. The other two aren't really based on anything, I just thought the image of them worked.

One last chapter to go! I hope this climax wasn't too disappointing, but dealing with school ended up being so chaotic that it was the best I could do…


	15. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything involved here. I just think this space looks silly without something here.

**White Winter**

**Epilogue**

It was, according to the news, the single worst winter that America had known in the modern age.

Snow blanketed the ground in every state and most of the territories, including Hawaii and American Samoa. The entire state of Alaska was forced to shut-down for three days after it became clear that the weather was too fierce for even their people. New York, D.C. and most of Maine also ground to a halt during that time, and many of the Southern states – whose lands had not seen snowfall of this magnitude since the last ice age – were beside themselves. The lost tropical fruit crops alone were devastating.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the fury of winter came to an end.

Meteorologists were baffled. Most eventually decided that climate change was responsible, launching a number of new campaigns for increased awareness of the subject and its eventual effects on the world. Some of the more faithful considered it to be a warning from God that America should change its ways and learn to treat the Earth more kindly.

The Nations who knew better decided that was as good an explanation as any and let the humans have their fun.

The Nordics went back to Europe for damage control. As expected, most of the rest of the world was pretty put-out that America had disappeared for a week and a half; but more surprising was the fact that a number of them – specifically England, France, Japan and Italy of all people, were genuinely concerned for the superpower's wellbeing.

The story that the northern nations gave them was simple: America had literally gone under-the-weather, contracting the nation equivalent of pneumonia under the force of the unfamiliar winter. Most nations seemed to be mollified and, to the Nordics' great relief, few questions were asked.

Once that job was done, they returned to their houses, with the exception of Denmark, who went to Norway's. His stated reason was a desire to keep an eye on the little magic-user, but the truth was likely closer to concern over General Winter's future actions. No matter how many times Norway tried to assure him that three of the four Seasons were on their side, Denmark insisted on sticking close.

When Iceland returned home, he couldn't shake the distinct feeling that he was being followed. It wasn't until he heard a very feminine giggle in his house and realized that it definitely could not have come from his puffin that he figured it out: Ulloriaq, the Taqriqsuit girl, had followed him home. His only recourse was to heave a little sigh, feed his puffin and resign himself to a few nights of being watched affectionately from the shadows like the heroine of a vampire film.

Sweden and Finland stopped by Estonia's place to clear up a few things, and Finland relaxed significantly upon discovering that Sealand was, in fact, safe and sound; much to Sweden's relief.

There was no word from the Other Side or the In-between place or anything supernatural to speak of. Nothing worrying seemed to be lingering from the incident but, just in case, it would be best to keep up a healthy watch before Winter came again.

"…Okay, I've got it. Thanks for the update, Tino," said Canada into the phone. He smiled a bit as Finland prodded him for information with all the insistence and care of a concerned mother hen. "Yes, yes, we're all fine. We fixed Al's arms and they're starting to re-mend. We're coping. Everything's going to be okay."

Through the bedroom door, he saw the lump of two powerfully-muscled bodies shifting within the covers of his bed – they were starting to wake up. Canada turned away, covered the phone with his hand and lowered his voice so he wouldn't disturb his bedmates more than he had to. "I've got to go. I'll see you at the next World Meeting. Take care."

With a final farewell from Finland, he hung up. As the phone came to rest in its cradle, America's head suddenly appeared from the mound of pillows and blankets, sending his brother a sleepy smile. "Hey Mattie."

"Hey Al," said Canada, crawling back into bed. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Naw." America yawned and stretched his shoulders as best he could. His arms were bound in thick casts and still numb from the anesthesia they'd used to dull the pain of re-breaking and resetting the knotted bones. The healthy color had returned to his cheeks and hair and the remnants of frost within him had faded into nothing. "Just wondered where you ran off too, is all."

"Finland asked me to check in with him." Canada glanced at the clock. "It's already morning there, after all."

"What time is it here?"

"Too early," said a voice from America's other side.

The hulking figure moved then, pulling America against him with one arm wrapped around his waist. Russia's very tired violet eyes peered over the top of America's head and gave Canada a tired, pointed sort of look. "Come back to bed, Matvey. It is much too cold to be up."

Matthew chuckled. This house of his was heated just fine, and the weather outside was really not that bad, but there was something nice and familiar about their little arrangement now. It shouldn't have been so, as nothing like this had ever happened to him before, but it was.

He slipped under the quilt and between the sheets and was almost instantly caught by America, who pulled him close with two stiff, cast-laden arms. Then Russia joined in, his long arms wrapping both twins in protective warmth. There had been a change in Russia since their return, not a large one but a subtle thing. He seemed warmer now, softer but not weaker, like a sturdy rock covered in moss. Canada wondered if this came from their encounter with the Seasons or if it was America's presence that wrought such change. In the end, he supposed it wasn't his place to ask.

"Спи спокойно," Russia muttered, his head resting so close above them that Canada could feel his breath. A moment later, the huge nation was fast asleep once more, wearing an expression similar to a sated bear.

Canada was about to follow him, but America's soft whisper jolted him back to consciousness. "Hey, Mattie?"

"Mm?"

"Did Finland say anything about that 'pact'?"

It was the tinge of disgust in his voice that drew Canada back to full consciousness. Between resetting operations, America had insisted that Canada and Russia tell him about the northern nations' pact and rituals for appeasing General Winter. He'd gone through the entire spectrum of heroic rage: anger, frustration, righteous fury, disgust with the villain's audacity and, most of all, concern that his brother had been made to go through that sort of incident by himself.

Canada thought about his words very carefully before he responded. "No, he didn't say. It might still be enforced, but…We won't really know anything until next winter."

America was quiet a moment. Then, he nuzzled up under Canada's chin like an affectionate child and rested his forehead against the hollow of his brother's throat. "Whenever you find out, tell me. And I mean immediately. I'll never forgive you if you don't."

"Alfred…"

"I mean it, Mattie," America snapped. "I might not understand Norway's mumbo-jumbo, but I'm not letting you go through that by yourself again. It isn't fair."

Canada sighed and rubbed his brother's back soothingly. "Life usually isn't fair."

"Then I'll make it fair. That's what the hero does, after all."

Canada smiled to himself. He leaned down and planted a little kiss on his brother's forehead. "All right. Whatever you say. Now get some rest. You need it."

As though he agreed even in his sleep, Russia snorted and tightened his grip on the two, pulling their little group closer together. America rolled over and flicked his finger across Russia's broad nose just softly enough to not wake him up. "All right, you big lug," he said affectionately. "I get it. G'night Mattie."

"Good night, Al."

Outside the window a cold wind howled. It rattled the window pane and left a burst of frost across the glass, but it could not reach them within the safety and security of each other's warmth. Soon enough, it died away, and its frosty remnants were eaten by the rising sun that heralded the coming of spring.

**The End. **


End file.
